"A Betrayal in Winter" - читать интересную книгу автора (Daniel Abraham)

A Betrayal in Winter

To Kat and Scarlet

This book and this series would not be as good if I hadn't had the help

of Walter Jon Williams, Melinda Snodgrass, Yvonne Coates, Sally Gwylan,

Emily Mah-Tippets, S. M. Stirling, Terry England, Ian "I regellis, Sage

Walker, and the other members of the New Mexico Critical Mass Workshop.

I also owe debts of gratitude to Shawna McCarthy and Danny Baror for

their enthusiasm and faith in the project, to James Frenkel for his

unstinting support and uncanny ability to take a decent manuscript and

make it better, and to 'lbm Doherty and the staff at Tor for their

kindness and support of a new author.

And I am especially indebted to Paul Park, who told me to write what I fear.

""]'here's a problem at the mines," his wife said. "One of your

treadmill pumps."

Biitrah Machi, the eldest son of the Khai Machi and a man of fortyfive

summers, groaned and opened his eyes. The sun, new-risen, set the

paper-thin stone of the bedchamber windows glowing. Iliarni sat beside him.

"I've had the boy set out a good thick robe and your seal hoots," she

said, carrying on her thought, "and sent him for tea and bread."

Biitrah sat up, pulling the blankets off and rising naked with a grunt.

A hundred things came to his half-sleeping mind. It'r a pump-the

engineers can fix it or Bread an,-1 tea? Ain I a prisoner? or Take that

robe off, dove-let's have the mines care for themselves fora morning.

But he said what he always did, what he knew she expected of him.

"No time. I'll cat once I'm there."

"Take care," she said. "I don't want to hear that one of your brothers

has finally killed you."

"When the time comes, I don't think they'll come after me with a

treadmill pump."

Still, he made a point to kiss her before he walked to his dressing

chamber, allowed the servants to array him in a robe of gray and violet,

stepped into the sealskin boots, and went out to meet the bearer of the

had tidings.

"It's the I)aikani mine, most high," the man said, taking a pose of

apology formal enough for a temple. "It failed in the night. They say

the lower passages are already half a man high with water."

Biitrah cursed, but took a pose of thanks all the same. Together, they

walked through the wide main hall of the Second Palace. The caves

shouldn't have been filling so quickly, even with a failed pump. Some

thing else had gone wrong. He tried to picture the shape of the Daikani

mines, but the excavations in the mountains and plains around Machi were

numbered in the dozens, and the details blurred. Perhaps four

ventilation shafts. Perhaps six. He would have to go and see.

His private guard stood ready, bent in poses of obeisance, as he came

out into the street. Ten men in ceremonial mail that for all its glitter

would turn a knife. Ceremonial swords and daggers honed sharp enough to

shave with. Each of his two brothers had a similar company, with a

similar purpose. And the time would come, he supposed, that it would

descend to that. But not today. Not yet. He had a pump to fix.

He stepped into the waiting chair, and four porters came out. As they

lifted him to their shoulders, he called out to the messenger.

"Follow close," he said, his hands flowing into a pose of command with

the ease of long practice. "I want to hear everything you know before we

get there."

They moved quickly through the grounds of the palaces-the famed towers

rising above them like forest trees above rabbits-and into the

black-cobbled streets of Machi. Servants and slaves took abject poses as

Biitrah passed. The few members of the utkhaiem awake and in the city

streets took less extreme stances, each appropriate to the difference in

rank between themselves and the man who might one day renounce his name

and become the Khai Machi.

Biitrah hardly noticed. His mind turned instead upon his passionthe

machinery of mining: water pumps and ore graves and hauling winches. He

guessed that they would reach the low town at the mouth of the mine

before the fast sun of early spring had moved the width of two hands.

They took the south road, the mountains behind them. They crossed the

sinuous stone bridge over the Tidat, the water below them still smelling

of its mother glacier. The plain spread before them, farmsteads and low

towns and meadows green with new wheat. Trees were already pushing forth

new growth. It wouldn't be many weeks before the lush spring took root,

grabbing at the daylight that the winter stole away. The messenger told

him what he could, but it was little enough, and before they had reached

the halfway point, a wind rose whuffling in Biitrah's ears and making

conversation impossible. The closer they came, the better he recalled

these particular mines. They weren't the first that House Daikani had

leased from the Khai-those had been the ones with six ventilation

shafts. "These had four. And slowly-more slowly than it once had-his

mind recalled the details, spreading the problem before him like

something written on slate or carved from stone.

By the time they reached the first outbuildings of the low town, his

fingers had grown numb, his nose had started to run from the cold, he

had four different guesses as to what might have gone wrong, and ten

questions in mind whose answers would determine whether he was correct.

He went directly to the mouth of the mine, forgetting to stop for even

bread and tea.

HIAMI SAT BY THE BRAZIER, KNOTTING A SCARF FROM SILK TIIREAD AND

LIStening to a slave boy sing old tunes of the l- mpire.

Almost-forgotten emperors loved and fought, lost, won, and died in the

high, rich voice. Poets and their slave spirits, the andat, waged their

private battles sometimes with deep sincerity and beauty, sometimes with

bedroom humor and bawdy rhymes-but all of them ancient. She couldn't

stand to hear anything written after the great war that had destroyed

those faraway palaces and broken those song-recalled lands. The new

songs were all about the battles of the Khaiem-three brothers who held

claim to the name of Khai. Two would die, one would forget his name and

doom his own sons to another cycle of blood. Whether they were laments

for the fallen or celebrations of the victors, she hated them. They

weren't songs that comforted her, and she didn't knot scarves unless she

needed comfort.

A servant came in, a young girl in austere robes almost the pale of

mourning, and took a ritual pose announcing a guest of status equal to

Hiami's.

"Idaan," the servant girl said, "Daughter to the Khai Machi."

"I know my husband's sister," Hiami snapped, not pausing in her

handwork. "You needn't tell me the sky is blue."

The servant girl flushed, her hands fluttering toward three different

poses at once and achieving none of them. Hiami regretted her words and

put down the knotting, taking a gentle pose of command.

"Bring her here. And something comfortable for her to sit on."

The servant took a pose of acknowledgment, grateful, it seemed, to know

what response to make, and scampered off. And then Idaan was there.

Hardly twenty, she could have been one of Hiami's own daughters. Not a

beauty, but it took a practiced eye to know that. Her hair, pitch dark,

was pleated with strands of silver and gold. Her eyes were touched with

paints, her skin made finer and paler than it really was by powder. Her

robes, blue silk embroidered with gold, flattered her hips and the swell

of her breasts. To a man or a younger woman, Idaan might have seemed the

loveliest woman in the city. Hiami knew the difference between talent

and skill, but of the pair, she had greater respect for skill, so the

effect was much the same.

They each took poses of greeting, subtly different to mark Idaan's blood

relation to the Khai and Hiami's greater age and her potential to become

someday the first wife of the Khai Machi. The servant girl trotted in

with a good chair, placed it silently, and retreated. Hiami halted her

with a gesture and motioned to the singing slave. The servant girl took

a pose of obedience and led him off with her.

Hiami smiled and gestured toward the seat. Idaan took a pose of thanks

much less formal than her greeting had been and sat.

"Is my brother here?" she asked.

"No. There was a problem at one of the mines. I imagine he'll be there

for the day."

Idaan frowned, but stopped short of showing any real disapproval. All

she said was, "It must seem odd for one of the Khaiem to be slogging

through tunnels like a common miner."

"Men have their enthusiasms," Hiami said, smiling slightly. Then she

sobered. "Is there news of your father?"

Idaan took a pose that was both an affirmation and a denial.

"Nothing new, I suppose," the dark-haired girl said. "The physicians are

watching him. He kept his soup down again last night. That makes almost

ten days in a row. And his color is better."

"But?"

"But he's still dying," Idaan said. Her tone was plain and calm as if

she'd been talking about a horse or a stranger. Hiami put down her

thread, the half-finished scarf in a puddle by her ankles. The knot she

felt in the back of her throat was dread. The old man was dying, and the

thought carried its implications with it-the time was growing short.

Biitrah, Danat, and Kaiin Machi-the three eldest sons of the Khaihad

lived their lives in something as close to peace as the sons of the

Khaiem ever could. Utah, the Khai's sixth son, had created a small storm

all those years ago by refusing to take the brand and renounce his claim

to his father's chair, but he had never appeared. It was assumed that he

had forged his path elsewhere or died unknown. Certainly he had never

caused trouble here. And now every time their father missed his howl of

soup, every night his sleep was troubled and restless, the hour drew

nearer when the peace would have to break.

"How are his wives?" Hiami asked.

"Well enough," Idaan said. "Or some of them are. The two new ones from

Nantani and Pathai are relieved, I think. They're younger than I am, you

know."

"Yes. They'll be pleased to go back to their families. It's harder for

the older women, you know. Decades they've spent here. Going back to

cities they hardly remember ..."

Hiami felt her composure slip and clenched her hands in her lap. ldaan's

gaze was on her. Hiami forced a simple pose of apology.

"No. I'm sorry," Idaan said, divining, Hiami supposed, all the fear in

her heart from her gesture. Hiami's lovely, absent-minded, warm, silly

husband and lover might well die. All his string and carved wood models

and designs might fall to disuse, as abandoned by his slaughter as she

would be. If only he might somehow win. If only he might kill his own

brothers and let their wives pay this price, instead of her.

"It's all right, dear," Hiami said. "I can have him send a messenger to

VOL] when he returns if you like. It may not he until morning. If he

thinks the problem is interesting, he might be even longer."

"And then he'll want to sleep," Idaan said, half smiling, "and I might

not see or hear from him for days. And by then I'll have found some

other way to solve my problems, or else have given tip entirely."

Hiami had to chuckle. The girl was right, and somehow that little shared

intimacy made the darkness more bearable.

"Perhaps I can be of some use, then," Hiami said. "What brings you here,

sister?"

To Hiami's surprise, ldaan blushed, the real color seeming slightly

false under her powder.

"I've ... I wanted 13iitrah to speak to our father. About Adrah. Adrah

Vaunyogi. He and I ..."

"Ah," Hiami said. "I see. Have you missed a month?"

It took a moment for the girl to understand. I Ier blush deepened.

"No. It's not that. It's just that I think he may be the one. He's from

a good family," Idaan said quickly, as if she were already defending

him. "They have interests in a trading house and a strong bloodline and..."

Hiami took a pose that silenced the girl. Idaan looked down at her

hands, but then she smiled. The horrified, joyous smile of new love

discovered. Hiami remembered how once it had felt, and her heart broke

again.

"I will talk to him when he comes back, no matter how dearly he wants

his sleep," Hiami said.

"Thank you, Sister," Idaan said. "I should ... I should go."

"So soon?"

"I promised Adrah I'd tell him as soon as I spoke to my brother. He's

waiting in one of the tower gardens, and ..

Idaan took a pose that asked forgiveness, as if a girl needed to be

forgiven for wanting to he with a lover and not a woman her mother's age

knotting silk to fight the darkness in her heart. Hiami took a pose that

accepted the apology and released her. Idaan grinned and turned to go.

Just as the blue and gold of her robe was about to vanish through the

doorway, Hiami surprised herself by calling out.

"Does he make you laugh?"

Idaan turned, her expression questioning. Hiami's mind flooded again

with thoughts of Biitrah and of love and the prices it demanded.

"Your man. Adrah? If he doesn't make you laugh, Idaan, you mustn't marry

him."

Idaan smiled and took a pose of thanks appropriate for a pupil to her

master, and then was gone. Hiami swallowed until she was sure the fear

was under control again, picked up her knotwork and called for the slave

to return.

THE SUN WAS GONE, THE MOON A SLIVER NO WIDER THAN A NAIL CLIPPING. Only

the stars answered the miners' lanterns as Biitrah rose from the earth

into darkness. His robes were wet and clung to his legs, the gray and

violet turned to a uniform black. The night air was bitingly cold. The

mine dogs yipped anxiously and paced in their kennels, their breath

pluming like his own. The chief engineer of House Daikani's mines took a

pose of profound thanks, and Biitrah replied graciously, though his

fingers were numb and awkward as sausages.

"If it does that again, call for me," he said.

"Yes, most high," the engineer said. "As you command."

Biitrah's guard walked him to the chair, and his bearers lifted him. It

was only now, with the work behind him and the puzzles all solved, that

he felt the exhaustion. The thought of being carried back to the palaces

in the cold and mud of springtime was only slightly less odious than the

option of walking under his own power. He gestured to the chief armsman

of his guard.

"We'll stay in the low town tonight. The usual wayhouse."

The armsman took a pose of acknowledgment and strode forward, leading

his men and his bearers and himself into the unlit streets. Biitrah

pulled his arms inside his robes and hugged hare flesh to flesh. The

first shivers were beginning. He half regretted now that he hadn't

disrobed before wading down to the lowest levels of the mine.

Ore was rich down in the plain-enough silver to keep Machi's coffers

full even had there been no other mines here and in the mountains to the

north and west-but the vein led down deeper than a well. In its first

generation, when Machi had been the most distant corner of the Empire,

the poet sent there had controlled the andat Raising-Water, and the

stories said that the mines had flowed up like fountains under that

power. It wasn't until after the great war that the poet Manat Doru had

first captured Stone-Made-Soft and Machi had come into its own as the

center for the most productive mines in the world and the home of the

metal trades-ironmongers, silversmiths, Westland alchemists,

needlemakers. But Raising-Water had been lost, and no one had yet

discovered how to recapture it. And so, the pumps.

He again turned his mind back on the trouble. The treadmill pumps were

of his own design. Four men working together could raise their own

weight in water sixty feet in the time the moon-always a more reliable

measure than the seasonally fickle northern sun-traveled the width of a

man's finger. But the design wasn't perfect yet. It was clear from his

day's work that the pump, which finally failed the night before, had

been working at less than its peak for weeks. That was why the water

level had been higher than one night's failure could account for. There

were several possible solutions to that.

Biitrah forgot the cold, forgot his weariness, forgot indeed where he

was and was being borne. His mind fell into the problem, and he was lost

in it. The wayhouse, when it appeared as if by magic before them, was a

welcome sight: thick stone walls with one red lacquered door at the

ground level, a wide wooden snow door on the second story, and smoke

rising from all its chimneys. Even from the street, he could smell

seasoned meat and spiced wine. The keeper stood on the front steps with

a pose of welcome so formal it bent the old, moon-faced man nearly

double. Biitrah's bearers lowered his chair. At the last moment, Biitrah

remembered to shove his arms back into their sleeves so that he could

take a pose accepting the wayhouse keeper's welcome.

"I had not expected you, most high," the man said. "We would have

prepared something more appropriate. The best that I have-"

"Will do," Biitrah said. "Certainly the best you have will do."

The keeper took a pose of thanks, standing aside to let them through the

doorway as he did. Biitrah paused at the threshold, taking a formal pose

of thanks. The old man seemed surprised. His round face and slack skin

made Biitrah think of a pale grape just beginning to dry. He could be my

father's age, he thought, and felt in his breast the bloom of a strange,

almost melancholy, fondness for the man.

"I don't think we've met," Biitrah said. "What's your name, neighbor?"

"Oshai," the moon-faced man said. "We haven't met, but everyone knows of

the Khai Machi's kindly eldest son. It is a pleasure to have you in this

house, most high."

The house had an inner garden. Biitrah changed into a set of plain,

thick woolen robes that the wayhouse kept for such occasions and joined

his men there. The keeper himself brought them black-sauced noodles,

river fish cooked with dried figs, and carafe after stone carafe of rice

wine infused with plum. His guard, at first dour, relaxed as the night

went on, singing together and telling stories. For a time, they seemed

to forget who this long-faced man with his graying beard and thinning

hair was and might someday be. Biitrah even sang with them at the end,

intoxicated as much by the heat of the coal fire, the weariness of the

day, and the simple pleasure of the night, as by the wine.

At last he rose up and went to his bed, four of his men following him.

They would sleep on straw outside his door. He would sleep in the best

bed the wayhouse offered. It was the way of things. A night candle

burned at his bedside, the wax scented with honey. The flame was hardly

down to the quarter mark. It was early. When he'd been a boy of twenty,

he'd seen candles like this burn their last before he slept, the light

of dawn blocked by goose-down pillows around his head. Now he couldn't

well imagine staying awake to the half mark. He shuttered the candlebox,

leaving only a square of light high on the ceiling from the smoke hole.

Sleep should have come easily to him as tired, well fed, half drunk as

he was, but it didn't. The bed was wide and soft and comfortable. He

could already hear his men snoring on their straw outside his door. But

his mind would not be still.

They should have killed each other when they were young and didn't

understand what a precious thing life is. That was the mistake. He and

his brothers had forborne instead, and the years had drifted by. Danat

had married, then Kaiin. He, the oldest of them, had met Hiami and

followed his brothers' example last. He had two daughters, grown and now

themselves married. And so here he and his brothers were. None of them

had seen fewer than forty summers. None of them hated the other two.

None of them wanted what would come next. And still, it would come.

Better that the slaughter had happened when they were boys, stupid the

way boys are. Better that their deaths had come before they carried the

weight of so much life behind them. He was too old to become a killer.

Sleep came somewhere in these dark reflections, and he dreamed of things

more pleasant and less coherent. A dove with black-tipped wings flying

through the galleries of the Second Palace; Hiami sewing a child's dress

with red thread and a gold needle too soft to keep its point; the moon

trapped in a well and he himself called to design the pump that would

raise it. When he woke, troubled by some need his sleepsodden mind

couldn't quite place, it was still dark. He needed to drink water or to

pass it, but no, it was neither of these. He reached to unshutter the

candlebox, but his hands were too awkward.

"There now, most high," a voice said. "Bat it around like that, and

you'll have the whole place in flames."

Pale hands righted the box and pulled open the shutters, the candlelight

revealing the moon-faced keeper. He wore a dark robe under a gray woolen

traveler's cloak. His face, which had seemed so congenial before, filled

Biitrah with a sick dread. The smile, he saw, never reached the eyes.

"What's happened?" he demanded, or tried to. The words came out slurred

and awkward. Still, the man Oshai seemed to catch the sense of them.

"I've come to be sure you've died," he said with a pose that offered

this as a service. "Your men drank more than you. Those that are

breathing are beyond recall, but you ... Well, most high, if you see

morning the whole exercise will have been something of a waste."

Biitrah's breath suddenly hard as a runner's, he threw off the blankets,

but when he tried to stand, his knees were limp. He stumbled toward the

assassin, but there was no strength in the charge. Oshai, if that was

his name, put a palm to Biitrah's forehead and pushed gently back.

Biitrah fell to the floor, but he hardly felt it. It was like violence

being done to some other man, far away from where he was.

"It must be hard," Oshai said, squatting beside him, "to live your whole

life known only as another man's son. To die having never made a mark of

your own on the world. It seems unfair somehow."

Who, Biitrah tried to say. Which of my brothers would stoop to poison?

"Still, men die all the time," Oshai went on. "One more or less won't

keep the sun from rising. And how are you feeling, most high? Can you

get up? No? That's as well, then. I was half-worried I might have to

pour more of this down you. Undiluted, it tastes less of plums."

The assassin rose and walked to the bed. There was a hitch in his step,

as if his hip ached. He is old as my father, but Biitrah's mind was too

dim to see any humor in the repeated thought. Oshai sat on the bed and

pulled the blankets over his lap.

"No hurry, most high. I can wait quite comfortably here. Die at your

leisure."

Biitrah, trying to gather his strength for one last movement, one last

attack, closed his eyes but then found he lacked the will even to open

them again. The wooden floor beneath him seemed utterly comfortable; his

limbs were heavy and slack. There were worse poisons than this. He could

at least thank his brothers for that.

It was only Hiami he would miss. And the treadmill pumps. It would have

been good to finish his design work on them. He would have liked to have

finished more of his work. His last thought that held any real coherence

was that he wished he'd gotten to live just a little while more. He did

not know it when his killer snuffed the candle.

HIAMI HAD THE SEAT OF HONOR AT THE FUNERAL, ON THE DAIS WITH THE Khai

Machi. The temple was full, bodies pressed together on their cushions as

the priest intoned the rites of the dead and struck his silver chimes.

The high walls and distant wooden ceiling held the heat poorly; braziers

had been set in among the mourners. Hiami wore pale mourning robes and

looked at her hands. It was not her first funeral. She had been present

for her father's death, before her marriage into the highest family of

Machi. She had only been a girl then. And through the years, when a

member of the utkhaiem had passed on, she had sometimes sat and heard

these same words spoken over some other body, listened to the roar of

some other pyre.

This was the first time it had seemed meaningless. Her grief was real

and profound, and this flock of gawkers and gossips had no relation to

it. The Khai Machi's hand touched her own, and she glanced up into his

eyes. His hair, what was left of it, had gone white years before. He

smiled gently and took a pose that expressed his sympathy. He was

graceful as an actor-his poses inhumanly smooth and precise.

Biitrah would have been a terrible Khai Machi, she thought. He would

never have put in enough practice to hold himself that well.

And the tears she had suffered through the last days remembered her. Her

once-father's hand trembled as if uneased by the presence of genuine

feeling. He leaned hack into his black lacquer seat and motioned for a

servant to bring him a bowl of tea. At the front of the temple, the

priest chanted on.

When the last word was sung, the last chime struck, bearers came and

lifted her husband's body. The slow procession began, moving through the

streets to the pealing of hand bells and the wailing of flutes. In the

central square, the pyre was ready-great logs of pine stinking of oil

and within them a bed of hard, hot-burning coal from the mines. Biitrah

was lifted onto it and a shroud of tight metal links placed over him to

hide the sight when his skin peeled from his noble bones. It was her

place now to step forward and begin the conflagration. She moved slowly.

All eyes were on her, and she knew what they were thinking. Poor woman,

to have been left alone. Shallow sympathies that would have been

extended as readily to the wives of the Khai Machi's other sons, had

their men been under the metal blanket. And in those voices she heard

also the excitement, dread, and anticipation that these bloody paroxysms

carried. When the empty, insincere words of comfort were said, in the

same breath they would move on to speculations. Both of Biitrah's

brothers had vanished. Danat, it was said, had gone to the mountains

where he had a secret force at the ready, or to Lachi in the south to

gather allies, or to ruined Saraykeht to hire mercenaries, or to the

Dai-kvo to seek the aid of the poets and the andat. Or he was in the

temple, gathering his strength, or he was cowering in the basement of a

low town comfort house, too afraid to come to the streets. And every

story they told of him, they also told of Kaiin.

It had begun. At long last, after years of waiting, one of the men who

might one day be Khai Machi had made his move. The city waited for the

drama to unfold. This pyre was only the opening for them, the first

notes of some new song that would make this seem to be about something

honorable, comprehensible, and right.

Hiami took a pose of thanks and accepted a lit torch from the

firekeeper. She stepped to the oil-soaked wood. A dove fluttered past

her, landed briefly on her husband's chest, and then flew away again.

She felt herself smile to see it go. She touched the flame to the small

kindling and stepped back as the fire took. She waited there as long as

tradition required and then went back to the Second Palace. Let the

others watch the ashes. "Their song might be starting, but hers here had

ended.

Her servant girl was waiting for her at the entrance of the palace's

great hall. She held a pose of welcome that suggested there was some

news waiting for her. Hiami was tempted to ignore the nuance, to walk

through to her chambers and her fire and bed and the knotwork scarf that

was now nearly finished. But there were tear-streaks on the girl's

cheeks, and who was Hiami, after all, to treat a suffering child

unkindly? She stopped and took a pose that accepted the welcome before

shifting to one of query.

"Idaan Machi," the servant girl said. "She is waiting for you in the

summer garden."

Hiami shifted to a pose of thanks, straightened her sleeves, and walked

quietly down the palace halls. The sliding stone doors to the garden

were open, a breeze too cold to be comfortable moving through the hall.

And there, by an empty fountain surrounded by bare-limbed cherry trees,

sat her once-sister. If her formal robes were not the pale of mourning,

her countenance contradicted them: reddened eyes, paint and powder

washed away. She was a plain enough woman without them, and Hiami felt

sorry for her. It was one thing to expect the violence. It was another

to see it done.

She stepped forward, her hands in a pose of greeting. Idaan started to

her feet as if she'd been caught doing something illicit, but then she

took an answering pose. Hiami sat on the fountain's stone lip, and Idaan

lowered herself, sitting on the ground at her feet as a child might.

"Your things are packed," Idaan said.

"Yes. I'll leave tomorrow. It's weeks to "Ian-Sadar. It won't be so

hard, I think. One of my daughters is married there, and my brother is a

decent man. They'll treat me well while I make arrangements for my own

apartments."

"It isn't fair," Idaan said. "They shouldn't force you out like this.

You belong here."

"It's tradition," Hiami said with a pose of surrender. "Fairness has

nothing to do with it. My husband is dead. I will return to my father's

house, whoever's actually sitting in his chair these days."

"If you were a merchant, no one would require anything like that of you.

You could go where you pleased, and do what you wanted."

"True, but I'm not, am I? I was born to the utkhaiem. You were horn to a

Khai."

"And women," Idaan said. Hiami was surprised by the venom in the word.

"We were born women, so we'll never even have the freedoms our brothers do."

Hiami laughed. She couldn't help herself, it was all so ridiculous. She

took her once-sister's hand and leaned forward until their foreheads

almost touched. Idaan's tear-red eyes shifted to meet her gaze.

"I don't think the men in our families consider themselves unconstrained

by history," she said, and Idaan's expression twisted with chagrin.

"I wasn't thinking," she said. "I didn't mean that ... Gods ... I'm

sorry, Hiami-kya. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry ..."

Hiami opened her arms, and the girl fell into them, weeping. Hiami

rocked her slowly, cooing into her ear and stroking her hair as if she

were comforting a babe. And as she did, she looked around the gardens.

This would be the last time she saw them. "Thin tendrils of green were

rising from the soil. The trees were bare, but their bark had an

undertone of green. Soon it would be warm enough to turn on the fountains.

She felt her sorrow settle deep, an almost physical sensation. She

understood the tears of the young that were even now soaking her robes

at the shoulder. She would come to understand the tears of age in time.

They would be keeping her company. There was no need to hurry.

At length, Idaan's sobs grew shallower and less frequent. The girl

pulled back, smiling sheepishly and wiping her eyes with the back of her

hand.

"I hadn't thought it would be this had," Idaan said softly. "I knew it

would be hard, but this is ... How did they do it?"

"Who, dear?"

"All of them. All through the generations. How did they bring themselves

to kill each other?"

"I think," Hiami said, her words seeming to come from the new sorrow

within her and not from the self she had known, "that in order to become

one of the Khaiem, you have to stop being able to love. So perhaps

Biitrah's tragedy isn't the worst that could have happened."

Idaan hadn't followed the thought. She took a pose of query.

"Winning this game may be worse than losing it, at least for the sort of

man he was. He loved the world too much. Seeing that love taken from him

would have been had. Seeing him carry the deaths of his brothers with

him ... and he wouldn't have been able to go slogging through the mines.

He would have hated that. He would have been a very poor Khai Maehi."

"I don't think I love the world that way," Idaan said.

"You don't, Idaan-kya," Hiami said. "And just now I don't either. But I

will try to. I will try to love things the way he did."

They sat a while longer, speaking of things less treacherous. In the

end, they parted as if it were just another absence before them, as if

there would be another meeting on another day. A more appropriate

farewell would have ended with them both in tears again.

The leave-taking ceremony before the Khai was more formal, but the

emptiness of it kept it from unbalancing her composure. He sent her back

to her family with gifts and letters of gratitude, and assured her that

she would always have a place in his heart so long as it beat. Only when

he enjoined her not to think ill of her fallen husband for his weakness

did her sorrow threaten to shift to rage, but she held it down. They

were only words, spoken at all such events. They were no more about

Biitrah than the protestations of loyalty she now recited were about

this hollow-hearted man in his black lacquer seat.

After the ceremony, she went around the palaces, conducting more

personal farewells with the people whom she'd come to know and care for

in Nlachi, and just as dark fell, she even slipped out into the streets

of the city to press a few lengths of silver or small jewelry into the

hands of a select few friends who were not of the utkhaiem. There were

tears and insincere promises to follow her or to one day bring her hack.

Hiam] accepted all these little sorrows with perfect grace. Little

sorrows were, after all, only little.

She lay sleepless that last night in the bed that had seen all her

nights since she had first come to the north, that had borne the doubled

weight of her and her husband, witnessed the birth of their children and

her present mourning, and she tried to think kindly of the bed, the

palace, the city and its people. She set her teeth against her tears and

tried to love the world. In the morning, she would take a flatboat down

the 'Fidat, slaves and servants to carry her things, and leave behind

forever the bed of the Second Palace where people did everything but die

gently and old in their sleep.

Maati took a pose that requested clarification. In another context, it

would have risked annoying the messenger, but this time the servant of

the Dai-kvo seemed to be expecting a certain level of disbelief. Without

hesitation, he repeated his words.

"The Dai-kvo requests Maati Vaupathai come immediately to his private

chambers."

It was widely understood in the shining village of the Dai-kvo that

Maati Vaupathai was, if not a failure, certainly an embarrassment. Over

the years he had spent in the writing rooms and lecture halls, walking

the broad, clean streets, and huddled with others around the kilns of

the firekeepers, Maati had grown used to the fact that he would never be

entirely accepted by those who surrounded him; it had been eight years

since the Dai-kvo had deigned to speak to him directly. Maati closed the

brown leather book he had been studying and slipped it into his sleeve.

He took a pose that accepted the message and announced his readiness.

The white-robed messenger turned smartly and led the way.

The village that was home to the [)a]-kvo and the poets was always

beautiful. Now in the middle spring, flowers and ivies scented the air

and threatened to overflow the well-tended gardens and planters, but no

stray grass rose between the paving stones. The gentle choir of wind

chimes filled the air. The high, thin waterfall that fell beside the

palaces shone silver, and the towers and garrets-carved from the

mountain face itself-were unstained even by the birds that roosted in

the eaves. Men spent lifetimes, Nlaati knew, keeping the village

immaculate and as impressive as a Khai on his scat. The village and

palaces seemed as grand as the great bowl of sky above them. His years

living among the men of the village-only men, no women were

permitted-had never entirely robbed Nlaati of his awe at the place. He

struggled now to hold himself tall, to appear as calm and self-possessed

as a man summoned to the Dai-kvo regularly. As he passed through the

archways that led to the palace, he saw several messengers and more than

a few of the brown-robed poets pause to look at him.

He was not the only one who found his presence there strange.

The servant led him through the private gardens to the modest apartments

of the most powerful man in the world. Maati recalled the last time he

had been there-the insults and recriminations, the Daikvo's scorching

sarcasm, and his own certainty and pride crumbling around him like sugar

castles left out in the rain. Maati shook himself. There was no reason

for the I)ai-kvo to have called him back to repeat the indignities of

the past.

There are always the indignities of the future, the soft voice that had

become Maati's muse said from a corner of his mind. Never assume you can

survive the future because you've survived the past. Everyone thinks

that, and they've all been wrong eventually.

The servant stopped before the elm-and-oak-inlaid door that led, Maati

remembered, to a meeting chamber. He scratched it twice to announce

them, then opened the door and motioned Maati in. Maati breathed deeply

as a man preparing to dive from a cliff into shallow water and entered.

The Dai-kvo was sitting at his table. He had not had hair since Maati

had met him twenty-three summers before when the Dai-kvo had only been

Tahi-kvo, the crueler of the two teachers set to sift through the

discarded sons of the Khaiem and utkhaiem for likely candidates to send

on to the village. His brows had gone pure white since he'd become the

Dai-kvo, and the lines around his mouth had deepened. His black eyes

were just as alive.

The other two men in the room were strangers to Maati. The thinner one

sat at the table across from the Dai-kvo, his robes deep blue and gold,

his hair pulled back to show graying temples and a thin whiteflecked

heard. The thicker-with both fat and muscle, Maati thought-stood at

window, one foot up on the thick ledge, looking into the gardens, and

Maati could see where his clean-shaven jaw sagged at the jowl. His robes

were the light brown color of sand, his boots hard leather and travel

worn. He turned to look at Maati as the door closed, and there was

something familiar about him-about both these new men-that he could not

describe. He fell into the old pose, the first one he had learned at the

school.

"I am honored by your presence, most high Dai-kvo."

The Dai-kvo grunted and gestured to him for the benefit of the two

strangers.

"This is the one," the Dai-kvo said. The men shifted to look at him,

graceful and sure of themselves as merchants considering a pig. Maati

imagined what they saw him for-a man of thirty summers, his forehead

already pushing hack his hairline, the smallest of pot bellies. A soft

man in a poet's robes, ill-considered and little spoken of. He felt

himself start to blush, clenched his teeth, and forced himself to show

neither his anger nor his shame as he took a pose of greeting to the two

men.

"Forgive me," he said. "I don't believe we have met before, or if we

have, I apologize that I don't recall it."

"We haven't met," the thicker one said.

"He isn't much to look at," the thin one said, pointedly speaking to the

Dai-kvo. The thicker scowled and sketched the briefest of apologetic

poses. It was a thread thrown to a drowning man, but Nlaati found

himself appreciating even the empty form of courtesy.

"Sit down, Maati-cha," the Dal-kvo said, gesturing to a chair. "Have a

bowl of tea. There's something we have to discuss. Tell me what you've

heard of events in the winter cities."

Maati sat and spoke while the Dai-kvo poured the tea.

"I only know what I hear at the teahouses and around the kilns, most

high. There's trouble with the glassblowers in Cetani; something about

the Khai Cetani raising taxes on exporting fishing bulbs. But I haven't

heard anyone taking it very seriously. Amnat-Tan is holding a summer

fair, hoping, they say, to take trade from Yalakeht. And the Khai Machi ..."

Maati stopped. He realized now why the two strangers seemed familiar;

who they reminded him of. The Dai-kvo pushed a fine ceramic bowl across

the smooth-sanded grain of the table. Maati fell into a pose of thanks

without being aware of it, but did not take the bowl.

"The Khai Machi is dying," the Dal-kvo said. "I Iis belly's gone rotten.

It's a sad thing. Not a good end. And his eldest son is murdered.

Poisoned. What do the teahouses and kilns say of that?"

"That it was poor form," Maati said. "'t'hat no one has seen the Khaiem

resort to poison since Udun, thirteen summers ago. But neither of the

brothers has appeared to accuse the other, so no one ... Gods! You two

are ..."

"You see?" the Dai-kvo said to the thin man, smiling as he spoke. "No,

not much to look at, but a decent stew between his ears. Yes, Maati-cha.

The man scraping my windowsill with his boots there is Danat Machi. This

is his eldest surviving brother, Kaiin. And they have come here to speak

with me instead of waging war against each other because neither of them

killed their elder brother Biitrah."

"So they ... you think it was Otah-kvo?"

"The Dai-kvo says you know my younger brother," the thickset

man-Danat-said, taking his own seat at the only unoccupied side of the

table. "Tell me what you know of Otah."

"I haven't seen him in years, Danat-cha," Maati said. "He was in

Saraykcht when ... when the old poet there died. He was working as a

laborer. But I haven't seen him since."

"Do you think he was satisfied by that life?" the thin one-Kaiin- asked.

"A laborer at the docks of Saraykeht hardly seems like the fate a son of

the Khaiem would embrace. Especially one who refused the brand."

Maati picked up the bowl of tea, sipping it too quickly as he tried to

gain himself a moment to think. The tea scalded his tongue.

"I never heard Otah speak of any ambitions for his father's chair,"

Maati said.

"And is there any reason to think he would have spoken of it to you?"

Kaiin said, the faintest sneer in his voice. Maati felt the blush

creeping into his cheeks again, but it was the Dai-kvo who answered.

""There is. Otah Machi and Maati here were close for a time. They fell

out eventually over a woman, I believe. Still, I hold that if Otah had

been bent on taking part in the struggle for Machi at that time, he

would have taken Maati into his confidence. But that is hardly our

concern. As Maati here points out, it was years ago. Otah may have

become ambitious. Or resentful. There's no way for us to know that-"

"But he refused the brand-" Danat began, and the Dai-kvo cut him off

with a gesture.

"There were other reasons for that," the Dai-kvo said sharply. "They

aren't your concern."

Danat Nlachi took a pose of apology and the Dai-kvo waved it away. Maati

sipped his tea again. 't'his time it didn't burn. To his right, Kaiin

Machi took a pose of query, looking directly at Maati for what seemed

the first time.

"Would you know him again if you saw him?"

"Yes," Maati said. "I would."

"You sound certain of it."

"I am, Kaiin-cha."

The thin man smiled. All around the table a sense of satisfaction seemed

to come from his answer. Maati found it unnerving. The Daikvo poured

himself more tea, the liquid clicking into his bowl like a stream over

stones.

"'T'here is a very good library in Machi," the Dai-kvo said. "One of the

finest in the fourteen cities. I understand there are records there from

the time of the Empire. One of the high lords was thinking to go there,

perhaps, to ride out the war, and sent his hooks ahead. I'm sure there

are treasures hidden among those shelves that would be of use in binding

the andat."

"Really?" Maati asked.

"No, not really," the Dai-kvo said. "I expect it's a mess of poorly

documented scraps overseen by a librarian who spends his copper on wine

and whores, but I don't care. For our purposes, there are secrets hidden

in those records important enough to send a low-ranking poet like

yourself to sift though. I have a letter to the Khai Machi that will

explain why you are truly there. IIc will explain your presence to the

utkhaiem and Cehmai 'Ivan, the poet who holds Stone-Made-Soft. Let them

think you've come on my errand. What you will be doing instead is

discovering whether Otah killed Biitrah Machi. If so, who is hacking

him. If not, who did, and why."

"Most high-" Maati began.

"Wait for me in the gardens," the Dal-kvo said. "I have a few more

things to discuss with the sons of Machi."

The gardens, like the apartments, were small, well kept, beautiful, and

simple. A fountain murmured among carefully shaped, deeply fragrant pine

trees. Maati sat, looking out. From the side of mountain, the world

spread out before him like a map. He waited, his head buzzing, his heart

in turmoil. Before long he heard the steady grinding sound of footsteps

on gravel, and he turned to see the Dai-kvo making his way down the path

toward him. Maati stood. He had not known the Dai-kvo had started

walking with a cane. A servant followed at a distance, carrying a chair,

and did not approach until the Dai-kvo signaled. Once the chair was in

place, looking out over the same span that Maati had been considering,

the servant retreated.

"Interesting, isn't it?" the Dai-kvo said.

Maati, unsure whether he meant the view or the business with the sons of

Machi, didn't reply. The Dai-kvo looked at him, something part smile,

part something less congenial on his lips. He drew forth two

packets-letters sealed in wax and sewn shut. Maati took them and tucked

them in his sleeve.

"Gods. I'm getting old. You see that tree?" the Dai-kvo asked, pointing

at one of the shaped pines with his cane.

"Yes, most high."

"There's a family of robins that lives in it. They wake me up every

morning. I always mean to have someone break the nest, but I've never

quite given the order."

"You are merciful, most high."

The old man looked up at him, squinting. His lips were pressed thin, and

the lines in his face were black as charcoal. Maati stood waiting. At

length, the Dai-kvo turned away again with a sigh.

"Will you be able to do it?" he asked.

"I will do as the Dai-kvo commands," Maati said.

"Yes, I know you'll go there. But will you be able to tell me that he's

there? You know if he is behind this, they'll kill him before they go on

to each other. Are you able to bear that responsibility? Tell me now if

you aren't, and I'll find some other way. You don't have to fail again."

"I won't fail again, most high."

"Good. That's good," the Dai-kvo said and went silent. Maati waited so

long for the pose that would dismiss him that he wondered whether the

Dai-kvo had forgotten he was there, or had chosen to ignore him as an

insult. But the old man spoke, his voice low.

"How old is your son, Maati-cha?"

"Twelve, most high. But I haven't seen him in some years."

"You're angry with me for that." Maati began to take a pose of denial,

but checked himself and lowered his arms. This wasn't the time for court

politics. The Dai-kvo saw this and smiled. "You're getting wiser, my

boy. You were a fool when you were young. In itself, that's not such a

bad thing. Many men are. But you embraced your mistakes. You de fended

them against all correction. That was the wrong path, and don't think

I'm unaware of how you've paid for it."

"As you say, most high."

"I told you there was no place in a poet's life for a family. A lover

here or there, certainly. Most men are too weak to deny themselves that

much. But a wife? A child? No. There isn't room for both what they

require and what we do. And I told you that. You remember? I told you

that, and you ..

The Dai-kvo shook his head, frowning in remembered frustration. It was a

moment, Maati knew, when he could apologize. He could repent his pride

and say that the Dai-kvo had indeed known better all along. He remained

silent.

"I was right," the Dai-kvo said for him. "And now you've done half a job

as a poet and half a job as a man. Your studies are weak, and the woman

took your whelp and left. You've failed both, just as I knew you would.

I'm not condemning you for that, Maati. No man could have taken on what

you did and succeeded. But this opportunity in Machi is what will wipe

clean the slate. Do this well and it will be what you're remembered for."

"Certainly I will do my best."

"Fail at it, and there won't be a third chance. Few enough men have two."

Maati took a pose appropriate to a student receiving a lecture.

Considering him, the Dal-kvo responded with one that closed the lesson,

then raised his hand.

"Don't destroy this chance in order to spite me, Maati. Failing in this

will do me no harm, and it will destroy you. You're angry because I told

you the truth, and because what I said would happen, did. Consider while

you go north, whether that's really such a good reason to hate me."

THE OPEN WINDOW LET IN A COOT, BREEZE THAT SMELLED OF PINE AND RAIN.

Otah Mach], the sixth son of the Khai Machi, lay on the bed, listening

to the sounds of water-rain pattering on the flagstones of the

wayhouse's courtyard and the tiles of its roof, the constant hushing of

the river against its banks. A fire danced and spat in the grate, but

his bare skin was still stippled with cold. The night candle had gone

out, and he hadn't bothered to relight it. Morning would come when it came.

The door slid open and then shut. He didn't turn to look.

"You're brooding, Itani," Kiyan said, calling him by the false name he'd

chosen for himself, the only one he'd ever told her. Her voice was low

and rich and careful as a singer's. He shifted now, turning to his side.

She knelt by the grate-her skin smooth and brown, her robes the formal

cut of a woman of business, one strand of her hair fallen free. Her face

was thin-she reminded him of a fox sometimes, when a smile just touched

her mouth. She placed a fresh log on the fire as she spoke. "I half

expected you'd be asleep already."

He sighed and sketched a pose of contrition with one hand.

"Don't apologize to me," she said. "I'm as happy having you in my rooms

here as in the teahouse, but Old Mani wanted more news out of you. Or

maybe just to get you drunk enough to sing dirty songs with him. He's

missed you, you know."

"It's a hard thing, being so loved."

"Don't laugh at it. It's not a love to carry you through ages, but it's

more than some people ever manage. You'll grow into one of those pinched

old men who want free wine because they pity themselves."

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to make light of Old Mani. It's just ..."

He sighed. Kiyan closed the window and relit the night candle.

"It's just that you're brooding," she said. "And you're naked and not

under the blankets, so you're feeling that you've done something wrong

and deserve to suffer."

"Ah," Otah said. "Is that why I do this?"

"Yes," she said, untying her robes. "It is. You can't hide it from me,

Itani. You might as well come out with it."

Otah held the thought in his mind. I'm not who I've told you I am. Itani

Noygu is the name I picked for myself when I was a child. My father is

dying, and brothers I can hardly recall have started killing each other,

and I find it makes me sad. He wondered what Kiyan would say to that.

She prided herself on knowing him-on knowing people and how their minds

worked. And yet he didn't think this was something she'd already have

guessed.

Naked, she lay beside him, pulling thick blankets up over them both.

"Did you find another woman in Chaburi-Tan?" she asked, halfteasing. But

only half. "Some young dancing girl who stole your heart, or some other

hit of your flesh, and now you're stewing over how to tell me you're

leaving me?"

"I'm a courier," Otah said. "I have a woman in every city I visit. You

know that."

"You don't," she said. "Some couriers do, but you don't."

"No?"

"No. It took me half a year of doing everything short of stripping bare

for you to notice me. You don't stay in other cities long enough for a

woman to chip through your reserve. And you don't have to push away the

blankets. You may want to be cold, but I don't."

"Well. Maybe I'm just feeling old."

"A ripe thirty-three? Well, when you decide to stop running across the

world, I'd always be pleased to hire you on. We could stand another pair

of hands around the place. You could throw out the drunks and track down

the cheats that try to slip away without paying."

"You don't pay enough," Otah said. "I talk to Old Mani. I know what your

wages are.

"Perhaps you'd get extra for keeping me warm at nights."

"Shouldn't you offer that to Old Mani first? He's been here longer than

I have."

Kiyan slapped his chest smartly, and then nestled into him. He found

himself curling toward her, the warmth of her body drawing him like a

familiar scent. Her fingers traced the tattoo on his breast-the ink had

faded over time, blurring lines that had once been sharp and clear.

"Jokes aside," she said, and he could hear a weariness in her voice, "I

would take you on, if you wanted to stay. You could live here, with me.

Help me manage the house."

He caressed her hair, feeling the individual strands as they flowed

across his fingertips. There was a scattering of white among the black

that made her look older than she was. Otah knew that they had been

there since she was a girl, as if she'd been born old.

"That sounds like you're suggesting marriage," he said.

"Perhaps. You wouldn't have to, but ... it would be one way to arrange

things. That isn't a threat, you know. I don't need a husband. Only if

it would make you feel better, we could ..."

He kissed her gently. It had been weeks, and he was surprised to find

how much he'd missed the touch of her lips. Weeks of travel weariness

slipped away, the deep unease loosened its hold on his chest, and he

took comfort in her. He fell asleep with her arm over his body, her

breath already soft and deep with sleep.

In the morning, he woke before she did, slipped out of the bed, and

dressed quietly. The sun was not up, but the eastern sky had lightened

and the morning birds were singing madly as he took himself across an

ancient stone bridge into Udun.

A river city, Udun was laced with as many canals as roadways. Bridges

humped up high enough for barges to pass beneath them, and the green

water of the Qiit lapped at old stone steps that descended into the

river mud. Otah stopped at a stall on the broad central plaza and traded

two lengths of copper for a thick wedge of honey bread and a bowl of

black, smoky tea. Around him, the city slowly came awakethe streets and

canals filling with traders and merchants, beggars singing at the

corners or in small rafts tied at the water's edge, laborers hauling

wagons along the wide flagstoned streets, and birds bright as shafts of

sunlight-blue and red and yellow, green as grass, and pink as dawn. Udun

was a city of birds, and their chatter and shriek and song filled the

air as he ate.

The compound of House Siyanti was in the better part of the city, just

downstream from the palaces, where the water was not yet fouled by the

wastes of thirty thousand men and women and children. The red brick

buildings rose up three stories high, and a private canal was filled

with barges in the red and silver of the house. The stylized emblem of

the sun and stars had been worked into the brick archway that led to the

central courtyard, and Otah passed beneath it with a feeling like coming

home.

Amiit Foss, the overseer for the house couriers, was in his offices,

ordering around three apprentices with sharp words and insults, but no

blows. Otah stepped in and took a pose of greeting.

"Ah! The missing Itani. Did you know the word for half-wit in the tongue

of the Empire was itani-nah?"

"All respect, Amiit-cha, but no it wasn't."

The overseer grinned. One of the apprentices-a girl of perhaps thirteen

summers-whispered something angrily, and the boy next to her giggled.

"Fine," the overseer said. "You two. I need the ciphers rechecked on

last week's letters."

"But I wasn't the one . . . ," the girl protested. The overseer took a

pose that commanded her silence, and the pair, glowering at each other,

stalked away.

"I get them when they're just growing old enough to flirt," Amiit said,

sighing. "Come back to the meeting rooms. The journey took longer than

I'd expected."

"There were some delays," Otah said as he followed the older man hack.

"Chaburi-'Ian isn't as tightly run as it was last time I was out there."

"No?"

"There are refugees from the Westlands."

"There are always refugees from the Westlands."

"Not this many," Otah said. "There are rumors that the Khai ChaburiTan

is going to restrict the number of Westlanders allowed on the island."

Amiit paused, his hands on the carved wood door of the meeting rooms.

Otah could almost see the implications of this thought working

themselves out behind the overseer's eyes. A moment later, Amiit looked

up, raised his eyebrows in appreciation, and pushed the doors open.

Half the day was spent in the raw silk chairs of the meeting rooms while

Amiit took Otah's report and accepted the letters-sewn shut and written

in cipher-that Otah had carried with him.

It had taken Otah some time to understand all that being a courier

implied. When he had first arrived in Udun six years before, hungry,

lost and half-haunted by the memories he carried with him, he had still

believed that he would simply be carrying letters and small packages

from one place to another, perhaps waiting for a response, and then

taking those to where they were expected. It would have been as right to

say that a farmer throws some seeds in the earth and returns a few

months later to sec what's grown. He had been lucky. His ability to win

friends easily had served him, and he had been instructed in what the

couriers called the gentleman's trade: how to gather information that

might be of use to the house, how to read the activity of a street

corner or market, and how to know from that the mood of a city. How to

break ciphers and re-sew letters. How to appear to drink more wine than

you actually did, and question travelers on the road without seeming to.

He understood now that the gentleman's trade was one that asked a

lifetime to truly master, and though he was still a journeyman, he had

found a kind of joy in it. Amiit knew what his talents were, and chose

assignments for him in which he could do well. And in return for the

trust of the house and the esteem of his fellows, Otah did the best work

he could, brokering information, speculation, gossip, and intrigue. He

had traveled through the summer cities in the south, west to the plains

and the cities that traded directly with the Westlands, up the eastern

coasts where his knowledge of obscure east island tongues had served him

well. By design or happy coincidence, he had never gone farther north

than Yalakeht. He had not been called on to see the winter cities.

Until now.

"There's trouble in the north," Amiit said as he tucked the last of the

opened letters into his sleeve.

"I'd heard," Otah said. "The succession's started in Machi."

"Amnat-"Ian, Machi, Cetani. All of them have something brewing. You may

need to get some heavier robes."

"I didn't think House Siyanti had much trade there," Otah said, trying

to keep the unease out of his voice.

"We don't. That doesn't mean we never will. And take your time. There's

something I'm waiting for from the west. I won't be sending you out for

a month at least, so you can have some time to spend you money. Unless ..."

The overseer's eyes narrowed. His hands took a pose of query.

"I just dislike the cold," Otah said, making a joke to cover his unease.

"I grew up in Saraykeht. It seemed like water never froze there."

"It's a hard life," Amiit said. "I can try to give the commissions to

other men, if you'd prefer."

And have them wonder why it was that I wouldn't go, Otah thought. He

took a pose of thanks that also implied rejection.

"I'll take what there is," he said. "And heavy wool robes besides."

"It really isn't so bad up there in summer," Amiit said. "It's the

winters that break your stones."

"Then by all means, send someone else in the winter."

They exchanged a few final pleasantries, and Otah left the name of

Kiyan's wayhouse as the place to send for him, if he was needed. He

spent the afternoon in a teahouse at the edge of the warehouse district,

talking with old acquaintances and trading news. He kept an ear out for

word from Machi, but there was nothing fresh. The eldest son had been

poisoned, and his remaining brothers had gone to ground. No one knew

where they were nor which had begun the traditional struggle. There were

only a few murmurs of the near-forgotten sixth son, but every time he

heard his old name, it was like hearing a distant, threatening noise.

He returned to the wayhouse as darkness began to thicken the treetops

and the streets fell into twilight, brooding. It wasn't safe, of course,

to take a commission in Machi, but neither could he safely refuse one.

Not without a reason. He knew when gossip and speculation had grown hot

enough to melt like sugar and stick. There would be a dozen reports of

Otah Mach] from all over the cities, and likely beyond as well. If even

a suggestion was made that he was not who he presented himself to be, he

ran the risk of being exposed, dragged into the constant, empty, vicious

drama of succession. He would sacrifice quite a lot to keep that from

happening. Going north, doing his work, and returning was what he would

have done, had he been the man he claimed to be. And so perhaps it was

the wiser strategy.

And also he wondered what sort of man his father was. What sort of man

his brother had been. Whether his mother had wept when she sent her boy

away to the school where the excess sons of the high familes became

poets or fell forever from grace.

As he entered the courtyard, his dark reverie was interrupted by

laughter and music from the main hall, and the scent of roast pork and

baked yams mixed with the pine resin. When he stepped in, Old Mani

slapped an earthenware bowl of wine into his hands and steered him to a

bench by the fire. There were a good number of travelers-merchants from

the great cities, farmers from the low towns, travelers each with a

story and a past and a tale to tell, if only they were asked the right

questions in the right ways.

It was later, the warm air busy with conversation, that Otah caught

sight of Kiyan across the wide hall. She had on a working woman's robes,

her hair tied back, but the expression on her face and the angle of her

body spoke of a deep contentment and satisfaction. She knew her place

was here, and she was proud of it.

Otah found himself suddenly stilled by a longing for her unlike the

simple lust that he was accustomed to. He imagined himself feeling the

same satisfaction that he saw in her. The same sense of having a place

in the world. She turned to him as if he had spoken and tilted her

head-not an actual formal pose, but nonetheless a question.

He smiled in reply. This that she offered was, he suspected, a life

worth living.

CEHMAI TYAN'S DREAMS, WHENEVER THE TIME. CAME TO RENEW HIS LIFE'S

struggle, took the same form. A normal dream-meaningless, strange, and

trivial-would shift. Something small would happen that carried a weight

of fear and dread out of all proportion. This time, he dreamt he was

walking in a street fair, trying to find a stall with food he liked,

when a young girl appeared at his side. As he saw her, his sleeping mind

had already started to rebel. She held out her hand, the palm painted

the green of summer grass, and he woke himself trying to scream.

Gasping as if he had run a race, he rose, pulled on the simple brown

robes of a poet, and walked to the main room of the house. The worked

stone walls seemed to glow with the morning light. The chill spring air

fought with the warmth from the low fire in the grate. The thick rugs

felt softer than grass against Cehmai's bare feet. And the andat was

waiting at the game table, the pieces already in place before it-black

basalt and white marble. The line of white was already marred, one stone

disk shifted forward into the field. Cehmai sat and met his opponent's

pale eyes. There was a pressure in his mind that felt the way a

windstorm sounded.

"Again?" the poet asked.

Stone-Made-Soft nodded its broad head. Cehmai Tyan considered the board,

recalled the binding-the translation that had brought the thing across

from him out of formlessness-and pushed a black stone into the empty

field of the hoard. The game began again.

The binding of Stone-Made-Soft had not been Cehmai's work. It had been

done generations earlier, by the poet Manat Doru. The game of stones had

figured deeply in the symbolism of the binding-the fluid lines of play

and the solidity of the stone markers. The competition between a spirit

seeking its freedom and the poet holding it in place. Cehmai ran his

fingertip along his edge of the board where Manat Doru's had once

touched it. He considered the advancing line of white stones and crafted

his answering line of black, touching stones that long-dead men had held

when they had played the same game against the thing that sat across

from him now. And with every victory, the binding was renewed, the andat

held more firmly in the world. It was an excellent strategy, in part

because the binding had also made StoneMade-Soft a terrible player.

The windstorm quieted, and Cehmai stretched and yawned. StoneMade-Soft

glowered down on its failing line.

"You're going to lose," Cehmai said.

"I know," the andat replied. Its voice was a deep rumble, like a distant

rockslide-another evocation of flowing stone. "Being doomed doesn't take

away from the dignity of the effort, though."

"Well said."

The andat shrugged and smiled. "One can afford to be philosophical when

losing means outliving one's opponent. This particular game? You picked

it. But there are others we play that I'm not quite so crippled at."

"I didn't pick this game. I haven't seen twenty summers, and you've seen

more than two hundred. I wasn't even a dirty thought in my grandfather's

head when you started playing this."

The andat's thick hands took a formal position of disagreement.

"We have always been playing the same game, you and I. If you were

someone else at the start, it's your problem."

They never started speaking until the game's end was a forgone

conclusion. That Stone-Made-Soft was willing to speak was as much a sign

that this particular battle was drawing to its end as the silence in

Cehmai's mind. But the last piece had not yet been pushed when a

pounding came on the door.

"I know you're in there! Wake up!"

Cehmai sighed at the familiar voice and rose. The andat brooded over the

board, searching, the poet knew, for some way to win a lost game. He

clapped a hand on the andat's shoulder as he passed by it toward the door.

"I won't have it," the stout, red-checked man said when the opened door

revealed him. He wore brilliant blue robes shot with rich yellow and a

copper tore of office. Not for the first time, Cehmai thought Baarath

would have been better placed in life as the overseer of a merchant

house or farm than within the utkhaiem. "You poets think that because

you have the andat, you have everything. Well, I've come to tell you it

isn't so."

Cehmai took a pose of welcome and stepped back, allowing the man in.

"I've been expecting you, Baarath. I don't suppose you've brought any

food with you?"

"You have servants for that," Baarath said, striding into the wide room,

taking in the shelves of books and scrolls and maps with his customary

moment of lust. The andat looked up at him with its queer, slow smile,

and then turned back to the board.

"I don't like having strange people wandering though my library,"

Baarath said.

"Well, let's hope our friend from the Dai-kvo won't be strange."

"You are an annoying, contrary man. He's going to come in here and root

through the place. Some of those volumes are very old, you know. They

won't stand mishandling."

"Perhaps you should make copies of them."

"I am making copies. But it's not a fast process, you know. It takes a

great deal of time and patience. You can't just grab some half-trained

scribes off the street corners and set them to copying the great hooks

of the Empire."

"You also can't do the whole job by yourself, Baarath. No matter how

much you want to."

The librarian scowled at him, but there was a playfulness in the man's

eyes. The andat shifted a white marker forward and the noise in Cehmai's

head murmured. It had been a good move.

"You hold an abstract thought in human form and make it play tricks, and

you tell me what's not possible? Please. I've come to offer a trade. If

you'll-"

"Wait," Cehmai said.

"If you'll just-"

"Baarath, you can be quiet or you can leave. I have to finish this."

Stone-Made-Soft sighed as Cehmai took his seat again. The white stone

had opened a line that had until now been closed. It wasn't one he'd

seen the andat play before, and Cehmai scowled. The game was still over,

there was no way for the andat to clear his files and pour the white

markers to their target squares before Cehmai's dark stones had reached

their goal. But it would be harder now than it had been before the

librarian came. Cehmai played through the next five moves in his mind,

his fingertips twitching. Then, decisively, he pushed the black marker

forward that would block the andat's fastest course.

"Nice move," the librarian said.

"What did you want with me? Could you just say it so I can refuse and

get about my day?"

"I was going to say that I will give this little poet-let of the

Dai-kvo's full access if you'll let me include your collection here. It

really makes more sense to have all the books and scrolls cataloged

together."

Cehmai took a pose of thanks.

"No," he said. "Now go away. I have to do this."

"Be reasonable! If I choose-"

"First, you will give Maati Vaupathai full access because the Dai-kvo

and the Khai Machi tell you to. You have nothing to bargain with.

Second, I'm not the one who gave the orders, nor was I consulted on

them. If you want barley, you don't negotiate with a silversmith, do

you? So don't come here asking concessions for something that I'm not

involved with."

A flash of genuine hurt crossed Baarath's face. Stone-Made-Soft touched

a white marker, then pulled back its hand and sank into thought again.

Baarath took a pose of apology, his stance icy with its formality.

"Don't," Cehmai said. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to he a farmer's wife

about the thing, but you've come at a difficult time."

"Of course. This children's game upon which all our fates depend. No,

no. Stay. I'll see myself out."

"We can talk later," Cehmai said to the librarian's hack.

The door closed and left Cchmai and his captive, or his ward, or his

other self, alone together.

"He isn't a very good man," Stone-Made-Soft rumbled.

"No, he's not," Cehmai agreed. "But friendship falls where it falls. And

may the gods keep us from a world where only the people who deserve love

get it."

"Well said," the andat replied, and pushed forward the white stone

Cehmai knew it would.

The game ended quickly after that. Cehmai ate a breakfast of roast lamb

and boiled eggs while Stone-Made-Soft put away the game pieces and then

sat, warming its huge hands by the fire. There was a long day before

them, and after the morning's struggle, Cchmai was dreading it. They

were promised to go to the potter's works before midday. A load of

granite had come from the quarries and required his services before it

could be shaped into the bowls and vases for which Machi was famed.

After midday, he was needed for a meeting with the engineers to consider

the plans for House Pirnat's silver mine. The Khai Machi's engi neers

were concerned, he knew, that using the andat to soften the stone around

a newfound seam of ore would weaken the structure of the mine. House

Pirnat's overseer thought it worth the risk. It would be like sitting in

a child's garden during a mud fight, but it had to be done. Just

thinking of it made him tired.

"You could tell them I'd nearly won," the andat said. "Say you were too

shaken to appear."

"Yes, because my life would be so much better if they were all afraid of

turning into a second Saraykeht."

"I'm only saying that you have options," the andat replied, smiling into

the fire.

The poet's house was set apart from the palaces of the Khai and the

compounds of the utkhaiem. It was a broad, low building with thick stone

walls nestled behind a small and artificial wood of sculpted oaks. The

snows of winter had been reduced to gray-white mounds and frozen pools

in the deep shadows where sunlight would not touch them. Cehmai and the

andat strode west, toward the palaces and the Great "rower, tallest of

all the inhuman buildings of Machi. It was a relief to walk along

streets in sunlight rather than the deep network of tunnels to which the

city resorted when the drifts were too high to allow even the snow doors

to open. Brief days, and cold profound enough to crack stone, were the

hallmarks of the Machi winter. The terrible urge to he out in the

gardens and streets marked her spring. The men and women Cehmai passed

were all dressed in warm robes, but their faces were bare and their

heads uncovered. The pair paused by a firekeeper at his kiln. A singing

slave stood near enough to warm her hands at the fire as she filled the

air with traditional songs. The palaces of the Khai loomed before

them-huge and gray with roofs pitched sharp as axe blades-and the city

and the daylight stood at their backs, tempting as sugar ghosts on

Candles Night.

"It isn't too late," the andat murmured. "Manat Doru used to do it all

the time. He'd send a note to the Khai claiming that the weight of

holding me was too heavy, and that he required his rest. We would go

down to a little teahouse by the river that had sweetcakes that they

cooked in oil and covered with sugar so fine it hung in the air if you

blew on it."

"You're lying to me," Cehmai said.

"No," the andat said. "No, it's truth. It made the Khai quite angry

sometimes, but what was he to do?"

The singing slave smiled and took a pose of greeting to them that Cehmai

returned.

"We could stop by the spring gardens that Idaan frequents. If she were

free she might be persuaded to join us," the andat said.

"And why would the daughter of the Khai tempt me more than sweetcakes?"

"She's well-read and quick in her mind," the andat said, as if the

question had been genuine. "You find her pleasant to look at, I know.

And her demeanor is often just slightly inappropriate. If memory serves,

that might outweigh even sweetcakes."

Cehmai shifted his weight from foot to foot, then, with a commanding

gesture, stopped a servant boy. The boy, seeing who he was, fell into a

pose of greeting so formal it approached obeisance.

"I need you to carry a message for one. To the Master of'I'ides."

"Yes, Cehmai-cha," the boy said.

"Tell him I have had a bout with the andat this morning, and find myself

too fatigued to conduct business. And tell him that I will reach him on

the morrow if I feel well enough."

The poet fished through his sleeves, pulled out his money pouch and took

out a length of silver. The boy's eyes widened, and his small hand

reached out toward it. Cehmai drew it back, and the boy's dark eyes

fixed on his.

"If he asks," Cehmai said, "you tell him I looked quite ill."

The boy nodded vigorously, and Cehmai pressed the silver length into his

palm. Whatever errand the boy had been on was forgotten. He vanished

into the austere gloom of the palaces.

"You're corrupting me," Cehmai said as he turned away.

"Constant struggle is the price of power," the andat said, its voice

utterly devoid of humor. "It must be a terrible burden for you. Now

let's see if we can find the girl and those sweetcakes."

"They tell me you knew my son," the Khai Machi said. The grayness of his

skin and yellow in his long, hound hair were signs of something more

than the ravages of age. The Dai-kvo was of the same generation, but

Maati saw none of his vigor and strength here. The sick man took a pose

of command. "Tell me of him."

Maati stared down at the woven reed mat on which he knelt and fought to

push away the weariness of his travels. It had been days since he had

bathed, his robes were not fresh, and his mind was uneasy. But he was

here, called to this meeting or possibly this confrontation, even before

his bags had been unpacked. He could feel the attention of the servants

of the Khai-there were perhaps a dozen in the room. Some slaves, others

attendants from among the highest ranks of the utkhaiem. The audience

might be called private, but it was too well attended for Maati's

comfort. The choice was not his. He took the bowl of heated wine he had

been given, sipped it, and spoke.

"Otah-kvo and I met at the school, most high. He already wore the black

robes awarded to those who had passed the first test when I met him. I

... I was the occasion of his passing the second."

The Khai Machi nodded. It was an almost inhumanly graceful movement,

like a bird or some finely wrought mechanism. Maati took it as a sign

that he should continue.

"He came to me after that. He ... he taught me things about the school

and about myself. He was, I think, the best teacher I have known. I

doubt I would have been chosen to study with the Dai-kvo if it hadn't

been for him. But then he refused the chance to become a poet."

"And the brand," the Khai said. "He refused the brand. Perhaps he had

ambitions even then."

He was a boy, and angry, Maati thought. He had beaten Tahi-kvo and

Milah-kvo on his own terms. He'd refused their honors. Of course he

didn't accept disgrace.

The utkhaiem high enough to express an opinion nodded among themselves

as if a decision made in heat by a boy not yet twelve might explain a

murder two decades later. Maati let it pass.

"I met him again in Saraykeht," Maati said. "I had gone there to study

under Heshai-kvo and the andat Removing-the-Part-ThatContinues. Otah-kvo

was living under an assumed name at the time, working as a laborer on

the docks."

"And you recognized him?"

"I did," Maati said.

"And yet you did not denounce him?" The old man's voice wasn't angry.

Maati had expected anger. Outrage, perhaps. What he heard instead was

gentler and more penetrating. When he looked up, the redrimmed eyes were

very much like Otah-kvo's. Even if he had not known before, those eyes

would have told him that this man was Otah's father. He wondered briefly

what his own father's eyes had looked like and whether his resembled

them, then forced his mind back to the matter at hand.

"I did not, most high. I regarded him as my teacher, and ... and I

wished to understand the choices he had made. We became friends for a

time. Before the death of the poet took me from the city."

"And do you call him your teacher still? You call him Otah-kvo. That is

a title for a teacher, is it not?"

Maati blushed. He hadn't realized until then that he was doing it.

"An old habit, most high. I was sixteen when I last saw Otah-cha. I'm

thirty now. It has been almost half my life since I have spoken with

him. I think of him as a person I once knew who told me some things I

found of use at the time," Maati said, and sensing that the falsehood of

those words might be clear, he continued with some that were more nearly

true. "My loyalty is to the Dai-kvo."

"That is good," the Khai Machi said. "Tell me, then. How will you

conduct this examination of my city?"

"I am here to study the library of Machi," Maati said. "I will spend my

mornings there, most high. After midday and in the evenings I will move

through the city. I think ... I think that if Otah-kvo is here it will

not be difficult to find him."

The gray, thin lips smiled. Maati thought there was condescension in

them. Perhaps even pity. He felt a blush rise in his cheeks, but kept

his face still. He knew how he must appear to the Khai's weary eyes, but

he would not flinch and confirm the man's worst suspicions. He swallowed

once to loosen his throat.

"You have great faith in yourself," the Khai Machi said. "You come to my

city for the first time. You know nothing of its streets and tunnels,

little of its history, and you say that finding my missing son will be

easy for you."

"Rather, most high, I will make it easy for him to find me."

It might have been his imagination-he knew from experience that he was

prone to see his own fears and hopes in other people instead of what was

truly there-but Maati thought there might have been a flicker of

approval on the old man's face.

"You will report to me," the Khai said. "When you find him, you will

come to me before anyone else, and I will send word to the Dai-kvo."

"As you command, most high," Maati lied. He had said that his loyalty

lay with the Dal-hvo, but there was no advantage he could see to

explaining all that meant here and now.

The meeting continued for a short time. The Khai seemed as exhausted by

it as Maati himself was. Afterward, a servant girl led him to his

apartments within the palaces. Night was already falling as he closed

the door, truly alone for the first time in weeks. The journey from his

home in the Dai-kvo's village wasn't the half-season's trek he would

have had from Saraykeht, but it was enough, and Maati didn't enjoy the

constant companionship of strangers on the road.

A fire had been lit in the grate, and warm tea and cakes of honeyed

almonds waited for him at a lacquered table. He lowered himself into the

chair, rested his feet, and closed his eyes. Being here, in this place,

had a sense of unreality to it. To have been entrusted with anything of

importance was a surprise after his loss of status. The thought stung,

but he forced himself to turn in toward it. He had lost a great deal of

the Dai-kvo's trust between his failure in Saraykeht and his refusal to

disavow Liat, the girl who had once loved Otah-kvo but left both him and

the fallen city to be with Maati, when it became clear she was bearing

his child. If there had been time between the two, perhaps it might have

been different. One scandal on the heels of the other, though, had been

too much. Or so he told himself. It was what he wanted to believe.

A scratch at the door roused him from his bitter reminiscences. He

straightened his robes and ran a hand through his hair before he spoke.

"Come in."

The door slid open and a young man of perhaps twenty summers wearing the

brown robes of a poet stepped in and took a pose of greeting. Maati

returned it as he considered Cehmai Tyan, poet of Mach]. The broad

shoulders, the open face. Here, Maati thought, is what I should have

been. A talented boy poet who studied under a master while young enough

to have his mind molded to the right shape. And when the time came, he

had taken that burden on himself for the sake of his city. As I should

have done.

"I only just heard you'd arrived," Cehmai Tyan said. "I left orders at

the main road, but apparently they don't think as much of me as they

pretend."

There was a light humor in his voice and manner. As if this were a game,

as if he were a person whom anyone in Machi-or in the worldcould truly

treat with less than total respect. He held the power to soften stone-it

was the concept, the essential idea, that Manat I)oru had translated

into a human form all those generations ago. This widefaced, handsome

boy could collapse every bridge, level every mountain. The great towers

of Machi could turn to a river of stone, fast-flowing and dense as

quicksilver, which would lay the city to ruin at his order. And he made

light of being ignored as if he were junior clerk in some harbormaster's

house. Maati couldn't tell if it was an affectation or if the poet was

really so utterly naive.

"The Khai left orders as well," Maati said.

"Ah, well. Nothing to be done about that, then. I trust everything is

acceptable with your apartments?"

"I ... I really don't know. I haven't really looked around yet. 'Ibo

busy sitting on something that doesn't move, I suppose. I close my eyes,

and I feel like I'm still jouncing around on the back of a cart."

The young poet laughed, a warm sound that seemed full of selfconfidence

and summer light. Maati felt himself smiling thinly and mentally

reproved himself for being ungracious. Cehmai dropped onto a cushion

beside the fire, legs crossed under him.

"I wanted to speak with you before we started working in the morning,"

Cehmai said. "The man who guards the library is ... he's a good man, but

he's protective of the place. I think he looks on it as his trust to the

ages."

"Like a poet," Maati said.

Cehmai grinned. "I suppose so. Only he'd have made a terrible poet. He's

puffed himself three times larger than anyone else just by having the

keys to a building full of papers in languages only half a dozen people

in the city can read. If he'd ever been given something important to do,

he'd have popped like a tick. Anyway, I thought it might ease things if

I came along with you for the first few days. Once Baarath is used to

you, I expect he'll be fine. It's that first negotiation that's tricky."

Maati took a pose that offered gratitude, but was also a refusal.

"There's no call to take you from your duties," he said. "I expect the

order of the Khai will suffice."

"I wouldn't only be doing it as a favor to you, Maati-kvo," Cehmai said.

The honorific took Maati by surprise, but the young poet didn't seem to

notice his reaction. "Baarath is a friend of mine, and sometimes you

have to protect your friends from themselves. You know?"

Maati took a pose that was an agreement and looked into the flames.

Sometimes men could be their own worst enemies. That was truth. He

remembered the last time he had seen Otah-kvo. It had been the night

Maati had admitted what Liat had become to him and what he himself was

to her. His old friend's eyes had gone hard as glass. Heshai-kvo, the

poet of Saraykeht, had died just after that, and Maati and Liat had left

the city together without seeing Otah-kvo again.

The betrayal in those dark eyes haunted him. He wondered how much the

anger had festered in his old teacher over the years. It might have

grown to hatred by now, and Maati had come to hunt him down. The fire

danced over the coal, flames turning the black to gray, the stone to

powder. He realized that the boy poet had been speaking, and that the

words had escaped him entirely. Maati took a pose of apology.

"My mind wandered. You were saying?"

"I offered to come by at first light," Cehmai said. "I can show you

where the good teahouses are, and there's a streetcart that sells the

best hot eggs and rice in the city. Then, perhaps, we can brave the

library?"

"That sounds fine. Thank you. But now I think I'd best unpack my things

and get some rest. You'll excuse me."

Cehmai bounced up in a pose of apology, realizing for the first time

that his presence might not be totally welcome, and Maati waved it away.

They made the ritual farewells, and when the door closed, Maati sighed

and rose. He had few things: thick robes he had bought for the journey

north, a few hooks including the small leatherbound volume of his dead

master's that he had taken from Saraykeht, a packet of letters from

Liat, the most recent of them years old now. The accumulated memories of

a lifetime in two bags small enough to carry on his hack if needed. It

seemed thin. It seemed not enough.

He finished the tea and almond cakes, then went to the window, slid the

paper-thin stone shutter aside, and looked out into the darkness. Sunset

still breathed indigo into the western skyline. The city glittered with

torches and lanterns, and to the south the glow of the forges of the

smith's quarter looked like a brush fire. The towers rose black against

the stars, windows lit high above him where some business took place in

the dark, thin air. Maati sighed, the night cold in his face and lungs.

All these unknown streets, these towers, and the lacework of tunnels

that ran beneath the city: midwinter roads, he'd heard them called. And

somewhere in the labyrinth, his old friend and teacher lurked, planning

murder.

Maati let his imagination play a scene: Otah-kvo appearing before him in

the darkness, blade in hand. In Maati's imagination, his eyes were hard,

his voice hoarse with anger. And there he faltered. He might call for

help and see Otah captured. He might fight him and end the thing in

blood. He might accept the knife as his due. For a dream with so vivid a

beginning, Maati could not envision the end.

He closed the shutter and went to throw another black stone onto the

fire. His indulgence had turned the room chilly, and he sat on the

cushion near the fire as the air warmed again. His legs didn't fold as

easily as Cehmai's had, but if he shifted now and again, his feet didn't

go numb. He found himself thinking fondly of Cehmai-the boy was easy to

befriend. Otah-kvo had been like that, too.

Maati stretched and wondered again whether, if all this had been a song,

he would have sung the hero's part or the villain's.

No ONE HAD EVER SEEN IDAAN'S REBELLIONS AS HUNGER. THA'1' HAD BEEN their

fault. If her friends or her brothers transgressed against the etiquette

of the court, consequences came upon them, shame or censure. But Idaan

was the favored daughter. She might steal a rival girl's gown or arrive

late to the temple and interrupt the priest. She could evade her

chaperones or steal wine from the kitchens or dance with inappropriate

men. She was Idaan Machi, and she could do as she saw fit, because she

didn't matter. She was a woman. And if she'd never screamed at her

father in the middle of his court that she was as much his child as

Biitrah or Danat or Kaiin, it was because she feared in her bones that

he would only agree, make some airy comment to dismiss the matter, and

leave her more desperate than before.

Perhaps if once someone had taken her to task, had treated her as if her

actions had the same weight as other people's, things would have ended

differently.

Or perhaps folly is folly because you can't see where it moves from

ambition into evil. Arguments that seem solid and powerful prove hollow

once it's too late to turn back. Arguments like Why should it be right

for them but wrong for me?

She haunted the Second Palace now, breathing in the emptiness that her

eldest brother had left. The vaulted arches of stone and wood echoed her

soft footsteps, and the sunlight that filtered though the stone shutters

thickened the air to a golden twilight. Here was the bedchamber, bare

even of the mattress he and his wife had slept upon. There, the workshop

where he had labored on his enthusiasms, keeping engineers by his side

sometimes late into the night or on into morning. The tables were empty

now. Dust lay thick on them, ignored even by the servants until the time

came for some new child of the Khaiem to take residence ... to live in

this opulence and keep his ear pricked for the sound of his brother's

hunting dogs.

She heard Adrah coming long before he stepped into the room. She

recognized his gait by the sound of it, and didn't call. He was clever,

she thought bitterly; if he wanted to find her, he could puzzle it out.

Adrah Vaunyogi, bright-eyed and broad-shouldered, father of her children

if all went well. Whatever well meant anymore.

"There you are," Adrah said. She could see his anger in the way he held

his body.

"What have I done this time?" she demanded, her tone carrying a sarcasm

that dismissed his concerns even before he spoke them. "Did your patrons

want me to wear red on a day I chose yellow?"

The mention of his hackers, even as obliquely as that, made him stiffen

and peer around, looking for slaves or servants who might overhear.

Idaan laughed-a cruel, short sound.

"You look like a kitten with a bell on its tail," she said. "There's no

one here but us. You needn't worry that someone will roll the rock off

our little conspiracy. We're as safe here as anywhere."

Adrah strode over and crouched beside her all the same. He smelled of

crushed violets and sage, and it struck Idaan that it had not been so

long ago that the scent would have warmed her heart and brought a flush

to her cheeks. His face was long and pretty-almost too pretty to be a

man's. She had kissed those lips a thousand times, but now it seemed

like the act of another woman-some entirely different Idaan Machi whose

body and memory she had inherited when the first girl died. She smiled

and raised her hands in a pose of formal query.

"Arc you mad?" Adrah demanded. "Don't speak about them. Not ever. If

we're found out ..."

"Yes. You're right. I'm sorry," Idaan said. "I wasn't thinking."

""There are rumors you spent a day with Cchmai and the andat. You were

seen.

"The rumors are true, and I meant to be seen. I can't see how my having

a close relationship to the poet would hurt the cause, and in fact I

think it will help, don't you? When the time comes that half the houses

of the utkhaiem arc vying for my father's chair, an upstart house like

yours would do well to boast a friendship with Cehmai."

"I think being married to a daughter of the Khai will be quite enough,

thank you," Adrah said, "and your brothers aren't dead yet, in case

you'd forgotten."

"No. I remember."

"I don't want you acting strangely. Things are too delicate just now for

you to start attracting attention. You are my lover, and if you are off

half the time drinking rice wine with the poet, people won't be saying

that I have strong friendship with him. They'll be saying that he's

cuckolding me, and that Vaunyogi is the wrong house to draw a new Khai

from."

"So you don't want me seeing him, or you just want more discretion when

I do?" Idaan asked.

That stopped him. His eyes, deep brown with flecks of red and green,

peered into hers. A sudden memory, powerful as illness, swept over her

of a winter night when they had met in the tunnels. He had gazed at her

then by firelight, had been no further from her than he was now. She

wondered how these could be those same eyes. Her hand rose as if by

itself and stroked his cheek. He folded his hands around hers.

"I'm sorry," she said, ashamed of the catch in her voice. "I don't want

to quarrel with you."

"What are you doing, little one?" he asked. "Don't you see how dangerous

this is that we're doing? Everything rests on it."

"I know. I remember the stories. It's strange, don't you think, that my

brothers can slaughter each other and all the people do is applaud, but

if I take a hand, it's a crime worse than anything."

"You're a woman," he said, as if that explained everything.

"And you," she said calmly, almost lovingly, "are a schemer and an agent

of the Galts. So perhaps we deserve each other."

She felt him stiffen and then force the tension away. His smile was

crooked. She felt something warm in her breast-painful and sad and warm

as the first sip of rum on a midwinter night. She wondered if it might

be hatred, and if it were, whether it was for herself or this man before

her.

"It's going to be fine," he said.

"I know," she said. "I knew it would be hard. It's the ways it's hard

that surprise me. I don't know how I should act or who I should be. I

don't know where the normal grief that anyone would feel stops or turns

into something else." She shook her head. "This seemed simpler when we

were only talking about it."

"I know, love. It will be simple again, I promise you. It's only this in

the middle that feels complicated."

"I don't know how they do it," she said. "I don't know how they kill one

another. I dream about him, you know. I dream that I am walking through

the gardens or the palaces and I see him in among a crowd of people."

Tears came to her eyes unbidden, flowing warm and thick down her cheeks,

but her voice, when she continued, was steady and calm as a woman

predicting the weather. "He's always happy in the dreams. He's always

forgiven me."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know you loved him."

Idaan nodded, but didn't speak.

"Be strong, love. It will be over soon. It will all be finished very soon.

She wiped the tears away with the hack of her hand, her knuckles

darkened where her paints were running, and pulled him close. He seemed

to hold back for a moment, then folded against her, his arms around her

trembling shoulders. He was warm and the smell of sage and violet was

mixed now with his skin-the particular musk of his body that she had

treasured once above all other scents. He murmured small comforts into

her ears and stroked her hair as she wept.

"Is it too late?" she asked. "Can we stop it, Adrah? Can we take it all

hack?"

He kissed her eyes, his lips soft as a girl's. His voice was calm and

implacable and hard as stone. When she heard it, she knew he had been

thinking himself down the same pathways and had come to the same place.

"No, love. It's too late. It was too late as soon as your brother died.

We have started, and there's no ending it now except to win through or die."

They stayed still in each others' embrace. If all went well, she would

die an old woman in this man's arms, or he would die in hers. While

their sons killed one another. And there had been a time not half a year

ago she'd thought the prize worth winning.

"I should go," she murmured. "I have to attend to my father. There's

some dignitary just come to the city that I'm to smile at."

"Have you heard of the others? Kaiin and Danat?"

"Nothing," Idaan said. "They've vanished. Gone to ground."

"And the other one? Otah?"

Idaan pulled back, straightening the sleeves of her robes as she spoke.

"Otah's a story that the utkhaiem tell to make the song more

interesting. He's likely not even alive any longer. Or if he is, he's

wise enough to have no part of this."

"Are you certain of that?"

"Of course not," she said. "But what else can I give you?"

They spoke little after that. Adrah walked with her through the gardens

of the Second Palace and then out to the street. Idaan made her way to

her rooms and sent for the slave boy who repainted her face. The sun

hadn't moved the width of two hands together before she strode again

though the high palaces, her face cool and perfect as a player's mask.

The formal poses of respect and deference greeted and steadied her. She

was Idaan Machi, daughter of the Khai and wife, though none knew it yet,

of the man who would take his place. She forced confidence into her

spine, and the men and women around her reacted as if it were real.

Which, she supposed, meant that it was. And that the sorrow and darkness

they could not see were false.

When she entered the council chambers, her father greeted her with a

silent pose of welcome. He looked ill, his skin gray and his mouth

pinched by the pain in his belly. The delicate lanterns of worked iron

and silver made the wood-sheathed walls glow, and the cushions that

lined the floor were thick and soft as pillows. The men who sat on

them-yes, men, all of them-made their obeisances to her, but her father

motioned her closer. She walked to his side and knelt.

"There is someone I wish you to meet," her father said, gesturing to an

awkward man in the brown robes of a poet. "The I)ai-kvo has sent him.

Maati Vaupathai has come to study in our library."

Fear flushed her mouth with the taste of metal, but she simpered and

took a pose of welcome as if the words had meant nothing. Her mind

raced, ticking through ways that the Dal-kvo could have discovered her,

or Adrah, or the Galts. The poet replied to her gesture with a formal

pose of gratitude, and she took the opportunity to look at him more

closely. The body was soft as a scholar's, the lines of his face round

as dough, but there was a darkness to his eyes that had nothing to do

with color or light. She felt certain he was someone worth fearing.

"The library?" she said. "That's dull. Surely there are more interesting

things in the city than room after room of old scrolls."

"Scholars have strange enthusiasms," the poet said. "But it's true, I've

never been to any of the winter cities before. I'm hoping that not all

my time will be taken in study."

'T'here had to be a reason that the Dai-kvo and the Galts wanted the

same thing. There had to be a reason that they each wanted to plumb the

depths of the library of Machi.

"And how have you found the city, Maati-cha?" she asked. "When you

haven't been studying."

"It is as beautiful as I had been told," the poet said.

"He has been here only a few days," her father said. "Had he come

earlier, I would have had your brothers here to guide him, but perhaps

you might introduce him to your friends."

"I would be honored," Idaan said, her mind considering the thou sand

ways that this might be a trap. "Perhaps tomorrow evening you would join

me for tea in the winter gardens. I have no doubt there are many people

who would be pleased to join us."

"Not too many, I hope," he said. He had an odd voice, she thought. As if

he was amused at something. As if he knew how badly he had shaken her.

Her fear shifted slightly, and she raised her chin. "I already find

myself forgetting names I should remember," the poet continued. "It's

most embarrassing."

"I will he pleased to remind you of my own, should it be required," she

said. Her father's movement was almost too slight to see, but she caught

it and cast her gaze down. Perhaps she had gone too far. But when the

poet spoke, he seemed to have taken no offense.

"I expect I will remember yours, Idaan-cha. It would be very rude not

to. I look forward to meeting your friends and seeing your city. Perhaps

even more than closeting myself in your library."

He had to know. He had to. Except that she was not being led away under

guard. She was not being taken to the quiet chambers and questioned. If

he did not know, he must only suspect.

Let him suspect, then. She would get word to Adrah and the Galts. They

would know better than she what to do with this NIaati Vaupathai. If he

was a threat, he would be added to the list. I3iitrah, Danat, Kaiin,

Otah, Maati. The men she would have to kill or have killed. She smiled

at him gently, and he nodded to her. One more name could make little

difference now, and he, at least, was no one she loved.

"WHEN ARE THEY SENDING YOU?" KIYAN ASKED AS SIZE POURED OUT THE bucket.

Gray water flowed over the bricks that paved the small garden at the

hack of the wayhouse. Otah took the longhandled brush and swept the

water off to the sides, leaving the walkway deep red and glistening in

the sunlight. He felt Kiyan's gaze on him, felt the question in the air.

The gardens smelled of fresh turned earth. Spices for the kitchen grew

here. In a few weeks, the place would be thick with growing things:

basil and mint and thyme. He imagined scrubbing these bricks week after

week over the span of years until they wore smooth or he died, and felt

an irrational surge of fondness for the walkway. He smiled to himself.

"Itani?"

"I don't know. That is, I know they want me to go to Machi in two weeks

time. Amiit Foss is sending half the couriers he has up there, it seems.

"Of course he is. It's where everything's happening."

"But I haven't decided to go."

The silence bore down on him now, and he turned. Kiyan stood in the

doorway-in her doorway. Her crossed arms, her narrowed eyes, and the

single frown-line drawn vertically between her brows, made Otah smile.

He leaned on his brush.

"We need to talk, sweet," he said. "There are some things ... we have

some business, I think, to attend to."

Kiyan answered by taking the brush from him, leaning it against the

wall, and marching to a meeting room at the back of the house. It was

small but formal, with a thick wooden door and a window that looked out

on the corner of the interior courtyard. The sort of place she might

give to a diplomat or a courier for an extra length of copper. The sort

of place it would be difficult to be overheard. That was as it should be.

Kiyan sat carefully, her face as blank as that of a man playing tiles.

Otah sat across from her, careful not to touch her hand. She was holding

herself back, he knew. She was restraining herself from hoping until she

knew, so that if what he said did not match what she longed to hear, the

disappointment would not he so heavy. For a moment, his mind flickered

back to a bathhouse in Saraykeht and another woman's eyes. He had had

this conversation once before, and he doubted he would ever have it again.

"I don't want to go to the north," Otah said. "For more reasons than one.

"Why not?" Kiyan asked.

"Sweet, there are some things I haven't told you. Things about my

family. About myself...."

And so he began, slowly, carefully, to tell the story. He was the son of

the Khai Machi, but his sixth son. One of those cast out by his family

and sent to the school where the sons of the Khaiem and utkhaiem

struggled in hope of one day being selected to be poets and wield the

power of the andat. He had been chosen once, and had walked away. Itani

Noygu was the name he had chosen for himself, the man he had made of

himself. But he was also Otah Machi.

He was careful to tell the story well. He more than half expected her to

laugh at him. Or to accuse him of a self-aggrandizing madness. Or to

sweep him into her arms and say that she'd known, she'd always known he

was something more than a courier. Kiyan defeated all the stories he had

spun in his dreams of this moment. She merely listened, arms crossed,

eyes turned toward the window. The vertical line between her brows

deepened slightly, and that was all. She did not move or ask questions

until he had nearly reached the end. All that was left was to tell her

he'd chosen to take her offer to work with her here at the wayhouse, but

she knew that already and lifted her hands before he could say the words.

"Irani ... lover, if this isn't true ... if this is a joke, please tell

me. Now."

"It isn't a joke," he said.

She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. When she spoke, she

seemed calm in a way that he knew meant rage beyond expression. At the

first tone of it, his heart went tight.

"You have to leave. Now. Tonight. You have to leave and never come hack."

"Kiyan-kya..."

"No. No kya. No sweet. No my lone. None of that. You have to leave my

house and you can't ever come back or tell anyone who you are or who I

am or that we knew each other once. Igo you understand that?"

"I understand that you're angry with me," Otah said, leaning toward her.

"You have a right to be. But you don't know how carefully I have had to

guard this."

Kiyan tilted her head, like a fox that's heard a strange noise, then

laughed once.

"You think I'm upset you didn't tell me? You think I'm upset because you

had a secret and you didn't spill it the first time we shared a bed?

Irani, this may surprise you, but I have secrets a thousand times less

important than that, and I've kept them a hundred times better."

`But you want me to leave?

"Of course I want you to leave. Are you dim? Do you know what happened

to the men who guarded your eldest brother? They're dead. Do you recall

what happened when the Khai Yalakeht's sons turned on each other six

years back? 't'here were a dozen corpses before that was through, and

only two of them were related to the Khai. Now look around you. How do

you expect me to protect my house? How can I protect Old Mani? And think

before you speak, because if you tell me that you'll be strong and manly

and protect me, I swear by all the gods I'll turn you in myself."

"No one will find out," Otah said.

She closed her eyes. A tear broke free, tracing a bright line down her

cheek. When he leaned close, reaching out to wipe it away, she slapped

his hand before it touched her.

"I would almost be willing to take that chance, if it were only me. Not

quite, but nearly. It isn't, though. It's everyone and everything I've

worked for."

"Kiyan-kya, together we could ..."

"Do nothing. Together we could do nothing, because you are leaving now.

And odd as it sounds, I do understand. Why you concealed what you did,

why you told inc now. And I hope ghosts haunt you and chew out your eyes

at night. I hope all the gods there are damn you for making me love you

and then doing this to me. Now get out. If you're here in half a hand's

time, I will call for the guard."

Outside the window, a flutter of wings and then the fluting melody of a

songbird. The constant distant sound of the river. The scent of pine.

"Do you believe me?" she asked. "That I'll call the guard on you if you

stay?"

"I do," he said.

"Then go."

"I love you."

"I know you do, 'Tani-kya. Go."

House Siyanti had quarters in the city for its people-small rooms hardly

large enough for a cot and a brazier, but the blankets were thick and

soft, and the kitchens sold meals at half the price a cart on the street

would. When the rain came that night, Otah lay in the glow of the coals

and listened to patter of water against leaves mix with the voices from

the covered courtyard. Someone was playing a nomad's harp, and the music

was lively and sorrowful at the same time. Sometimes voices would rise

up together in song or laughter. He turned Kiyan's words over in his

mind and noticed how empty they made him feel.

He'd been a fool to tell her, a fool to say anything. If he had only

kept his secrets secret, he could have made a life for himself based on

lies, and if the brothers he only knew as shadows and moments from a

halfrecalled childhood had ever discovered him, Kiyan and Old Mani and

anyone else unfortunate enough to know him might have been killed

without even knowing why.

Kiyan had not been wrong.

A gentle murmur of thunder came and went. Otah rose from his cot and

walked out. Amiit Foss kept late hours, and Otah found him sitting at a

fire grate, poking the crackling flames with a length of iron while he

joked over his shoulder with the five men and four women who lounged on

cushions and low chairs. He smiled when he saw Otah and called for a

howl of wine for him. The gathering looked so calm and felt so relaxed

that only someone in the gentleman's trade would have recognized it for

the business meeting that it was.

"Itani-cha is one of the couriers I mean to send north, if I can pry him

away from his love of sloth and comfort," Amiit said with a smile. The

others greeted him and made him welcome. Otah sat by the fire and

listened. There would be nothing said here that he was not permitted to

know. Amiit's introduction had established with the subtlety of a master

Otah's rank and the level of trust to be afforded him, and no one in the

room was so thick as to misunderstand him.

The news from the north was confusing. The two surviving sons of Machi

had vanished. Neither had appeared in the other cities of the Khaiem,

going to courts and looking for support as tradition would have them do.

Nor had the streets of Machi erupted in bloodshed as their bases of

power within the city vied for advantage. The best estimates were that

the old Khai wouldn't see another winter, and even some of the houses of

the utkhaiem seemed to be preparing to offer up their sons as the new

Khai should the succession fail to deliver a single living heir.

Something very quiet was happening, and House Siyanti-like everyone else

in the world-was aching with curiosity. Otah could hear it in their

voices, could see it in the way they held their wine. Even when the

conversation shifted to the glassblowers of Cetani and the collapse of

the planned summer fair in Amnat-Tan, all minds were drawn toward Machi.

He sipped his wine.

Going north was dangerous. He knew that, and still it didn't escape him

that the Khai Machi dying by inches was his father, that these men were

the brothers he knew only as vague memories. And because of these men,

he had lost everything again. If he was going to be haunted his whole

life by the city, perhaps he should at least see it. The only thing he

risked was his life.

At length, the conversation turned to less weighty matters andwithout a

word or shift in voice or manner-the meeting was ended. Otah spoke as

much as any, laughed as much, and sang as loudly when the pipe players

joined them. But when he stretched and turned to leave, Amiit Foss was

at his side. Otah and the overseer left together, as if they had only

happened to rise at the same time, and Otah knew that no one in the

drunken, boisterous room they left had failed to notice it.

"So, it sounds as if all the interesting things in the world were

happening in Machi," Otah said as they strode back through the hallways

of the house compound. "You are still hoping to send me there?"

"I've been hoping," Amiit Foss agreed. "But I have other plans if you

have some of your own."

"I don't," Otah said, and Amiit paused. In the dim lantern light, Otah

let the old man search his face. Something passed over Amiit, the ghost

of some old sorrow, and then he took a pose of condolence.

"I thought you had come to quit the house," Amiit said.

"I'd meant to," Otah said, surprised at himself for admitting it.

Amiit gestured Otah to follow him, and together they retired to Amiit's

apartments. The rooms were large and warm, hung with tapestries and lit

by a dozen candles. Utah sat on a low seat by a table, and Amiit took a

box from his shelf. Inside were two small porcelain bowls and a white

stoppered bottle that matched them. When Amiit poured, the scent of rice

wine filled the room.

"We drink to the gods," Amiit said, raising his bowl. "May they never

drink to us."

Otah drank the wine at a gulp. It was excellent, and he felt his throat

grow warmer. He looked at the empty bowl in his fingers and nodded.

Amiit grinned.

"It was a gift from an old friend," Amiit said. "I love to drink it, but

I hate to drink alone."

"I'm pleased to be of service," Otah said as Amiit filled the bowl again.

"So things with the woman didn't work out?"

"No," Utah said.

"I'm sorry."

"It was entirely my fault."

"If it's true, you're a wise man to know it, and if not, you're a good

man for saying it. Either way."

"I think it would he ... that is, if there are any letters to be

carried, I think travel might be the best thing just now. I don't really

care to stay in Udun."

Amiit sighed and nodded.

"Tomorrow," he said. "Come to my offices in the morning. We'll arrange

something."

Afterwards, they finished the rice wine and talked of nothing

important-of old stories and old travels, the women they had known and

loved or else hated. Or both. Otah said nothing of Kiyan or the north,

and Amiit didn't press him. When Otah rose to leave, he was surprised to

find how drunk he had become. He navigated his way to his room and lay

on the couch, mustering the resolve to pull off his robes. Morning found

him still dressed. He changed robes and went down to the bathhouse,

forcing his mind back over his conversations of the night before. He was

fairly certain he had said nothing to implicate himself or make Amiit

suspect the nature of his falling out with Kiyan. He wondered what the

old man would have made of the truth, had he known it.

The packet of letters waited for him, each sewn and sealed, in a leather

bag on Amiit Foss' desk. Most were for trading houses in Machi, though

there were four that were to go to members of the utkhaiem. Otah turned

the packet in his hands. Behind him, one of the apprentices said

something softly and another giggled.

"You have time to reconsider," Amiit said. "You could go back to her on

your knees. If the letters wait another day, there's little lost. And

she might relent."

Otah tucked the letters into their pouch and slipped it into his sleeve.

"An old lover of mine once told me that everything I'd ever won, I won

by leaving," Otah said.

"The island girl?"

"Did I mention her last night?"

"At length," Amiit said, chuckling. "That particular quotation came up

twice, as I recall. There might have been a third time too. I couldn't

really say."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I hope I didn't tell you all my secrets," Otah

said, making a joke of his sudden unease. He didn't recall saying

anything about Maj, and it occurred to him exactly how dangerous that

night had been.

"If you had, I'd make it a point to forget them," Amiit said. "Nothing a

drunk man says on the day his woman leaves him should be held against

him. It's poor form. And this is, after all, a gentleman's trade, ne?"

Otah took a pose of agreement.

"I'll report what I find when I get back," he said, unnecessarily.

"Assuming I haven't frozen to death on the roads."

"Be careful up there, Itani. Things are uncertain when there's the scent

of a new Khai in the wind. It's interesting, and it's important, but

it's not always safe."

Otah shifted to a pose of thanks, to which his supervisor replied in

kind, his face so pleasantly unreadable that Otah genuinely didn't know

how deep the warning ran.

When Maati considered the mines-something he had rarely had occasion to

do-he had pictured great holes going deep into the earth. He had not

imagined the branchings and contortions of passages where miners

struggled to follow veins of ore, the stench of dust and damp, the yelps

and howls of the dogs that pulled the flatbottomed sledges filled with

gravel, or the darkness. He held his lantern low, as did the others

around him. 't'here was no call to raise it. Nothing more would be seen,

and the prospect of breaking it against the stone overhead was unpleasant.

""There can be places where the air goes bad, too," Cehmai said as they

turned another twisting corner. "They take birds with them because they

die first."

"What happens then?" Maati asked. "If the birds die?"

"It depends on how valuable the ore is," the young poet said. "Abandon

the mine, or try to blow out the had air. Or use slaves. There are men

whose indentures allow that."

Two servants followed at a distance, their own torches glowing. Maati

had the sense that they would all, himself included, have been better

pleased to spend the day in the palaces. All but the andat.

StoneMade-Soft alone among them seemed untroubled by the weight over

them and the gloom that pressed in when the lanterns flickered. The

wide, calm face seemed almost stupid to Maati, the andat's occasional

pronouncements simplistic compared with the thousand-layered comments of

Seedless, the only andat he'd known intimately. He knew better than to

be taken in. 'The form of the andat might be different, the mental

bindings that held it might place different strictures upon it, but the

hunger at its center was as desperate. It was an andat, and it would

long to return to its natural state. They might seem as different as a

marble from a thorn, but at heart they were all the same.

And Maati knew he was walking through a tunnel not so tall he could

stand to his full height with a thousand tons of stone above him. This

placid-faced ghost could bring it down on him as if they'd been crawling

through a hole in the ocean.

"So, you see," Cehmai was saying, "the Daikani engineers find where they

want to extend the mine out. Or down, or up. We have to leave that to

them. Then I will come through and walk through the survey with them, so

that we all understand what they're asking."

"And how much do you soften it?"

"It varies," Cehmai said. "It depends on the kind of rock. Some of them

you can almost reduce to putty if you're truly clear where you want it

to be. Then other times, you only want it to be easier to dig through.

Most often, that's when they're concerned about collapses."

"I see," Maati said. "And the pumps? How do those figure in?"

"That was actually an entirely different agreement. The Khai's eldest

son was interested in the problem. The mines here are some of the lowest

that are still in use. The northern mines are almost all in the

mountains, and so they aren't as likely to strike water."

"So the Daikani pay more for being here?"

"No, not really. The pumps he designed usually work quite well."

"But the payment for them?"

Cehmai grinned. His teeth and skin were yellowed by the lantern light.

"It was a different agreement," Cehmai said again. "The Daikani let him

experiment with his designs and he let them use them."

"But if they worked well ..."

"Other mines would pay the Khai for the use of the pumps if they wished

for help building them. Usually, though, the mines will help each other

on things like that. There's a certain . . . what to call it ...

brotherhood? The miners take care of each other, whatever house they

work for."

"Might we see the pumps?"

"If you'd like," he said. "They're back in the deeper parts of the mine.

If you don't mind walking down farther...."

Maati forced a grin and did not look at the wide face of the andat

turning toward him.

"Not at all," he said. "Let's go down."

The pumps, when he found them at last, were ingenious. A series of

treadmills turned huge corkscrews that lifted the water up to pools

where another corkscrew waited to lift it higher again. They did not

keep the deepest tunnels dry-the walls there seemed to weep as Maati

waded through warm, knee-high water-but they kept it clear enough to

work. Machi had, Cehmai assured him, the deepest tunnels in the world.

NIaati did not ask if they were the safest.

They found the mine's overseer here in the depths. Voices seemed to

carry better in the watery tunnels than up above, but Maati could not

make out the words clearly until they were almost upon him. A small,

thick-set man with a darkness to him that made Maati think of grime

worked so deeply into skin that it would never come clean, he took a

pose of welcome as they approached.

"We've an honored guest come to the city," Cehmai said.

"We've had many honored guests in the city," the overseer said, with a

grin. "Damn few in the bottom of the hole, though. There's no palaces

down here."

"But Machi's fortunes rest on its mines," Maati said. "So in a sense

these are the deepest cellars of the palaces. The ones where the best

treasures are hidden."

The overseer grinned.

"I like this one," he said to Cehmai. "He's got a quick head on him."

"I heard about the pumps the Khai's eldest son had designed," Maati

said. "I was wondering if you could tell me of them?"

The grin widened, and the overseer launched into an expansive and

delighted discussion of water and mines and the difficulty of removing

the one from the other. Maati listened, struggling to follow the

vocabulary and grammar particular to the trade.

"He had a gift for them," the overseer said, at last. His voice was

melancholy. "We'll keep at them, these pumps, and they'll get better,

but not like they would have with Biitrah-cha on them."

"He was here, I understand, on the day he was killed," Maati said. He

saw the young poet's head shift, turning to consider him, and he ignored

it as he had the andat's.

"That's truth. And I wish he'd stayed. His brothers aren't bad men, but

they aren't miners. And ... well, he'll be missed."

"I had thought it odd, though," Nlaati said. "Whichever brother killed

him, they had to know where he would be-that he would be called out

here, and that the work would take so much of the day that he wouldn't

return to the city itself."

"I suppose that's so," the overseer said.

"Then someone knew your pumps would fail," Maati said.

The lamplight flickered off the surface of the water, casting shadows up

the overseer's face as this sank in. Cehmai coughed. Maati said nothing,

did not move, waited. If any man here had been involved with it, the

overseer was most likely. But Maati saw no rage or wariness in his

expression, only the slow blooming of implication that might be expected

in a man who had not thought the murder through. So perhaps he could be

used after all.

"You're saying someone sabotaged my pumps to get him out here," the

overseer said at last.

Maati wished deeply that Cehmai and his andat were not presentthis was a

thing better done alone. But the moment had arrived, and there was

nothing to be done but go forward. The servants at least were far enough

away not to overhear if he spoke softly. Maati dug in his sleeve and

came out with a letter and a small leather pouch, heavy with silver

lengths. He pressed them both into the surprised overseer's hands.

"If you should discover who did, I would very much like to speak with

them before the officers of the utkhaiem or the head of your House. That

letter will tell you how to find me."

The overseer tucked away the pouch and letter, taking a pose of thanks

which Maati waved away. Cehmai and the andat were silent as stones.

"And how long is it you've been working these mines?" Maati asked,

forcing a lightness to his tone he did not feel. Soon the overseer was

regaling them with stories of his years underground, and they were

walking together toward the surface again. By the time Maati stepped out

from the long, sloping throat of the mine and into daylight, his feet

were numb. A litter waited for them, twelve strong men prepared to carry

the three of them back to the palaces. Maati stopped for a moment to

wring the water from the hem of his robes and to appreciate having

nothing but the wide sky above him.

"Why was it the Dai-kvo sent you?" Cehmai asked as they climbed into the

wooden litter. His voice was almost innocent, but even the andat was

looking at Maati oddly.

"There are suggestions that the library may have some old references

that the Dai-kvo lacks. Things that touch on the grammars of the first

poets."

"Ah," Cehmai said. The litter lurched and rose, swaying slightly as the

servants bore them away hack to the palaces. "And nothing more than that?"

"Of course not," Maati said. "What more could there he?"

He knew that he was convincing no one. And that was likely a fine thing.

Maati had spent his first days in Machi learning the city, the courts,

the teahouses. The Khai's daughter had introduced him to the gatherings

of the younger generation of the utkhaiem as the poet Cehmai had to the

elder. Maati had spent each night walking a different quarter of the

city, wrapped in thick wool robes with close hoods against the vicious

cold of the spring air. He had learned the intrigues of the court: which

houses were vying for marriages to which cities, who was likely to be

extorting favors for whom over what sorts of indiscretion, all the petty

wars of a family of a thousand children.

He had used the opportunities to spread the name of Irani Noygu- saying

only that he was an old friend Maati had heard might be in the city,

whom he would very much like to see. There was no way to say that it was

the name Otah Machi had invented for himself in Saraykeht, and even if

there had been, Maati would likely not have done so. He had come to

realize exactly how little he knew what he ought to do.

He had been sent because he knew Otah, knew how his old friend's mind

worked, would recognize him should they meet. They were advantages,

Maati supposed, but it was hard to weigh them against his inexperience.

There was little enough to learn of making discreet inquiries when your

life was spent in the small tasks of the Dai-kvo's village. An overseer

of a trading house would have been better suited to the task. A

negotiator, or a courier. Liat would have been better, the woman he had

once loved, who had once loved him. Liat, mother of the boy Nayiit, whom

Maati had held as a babe and loved more than water or air. Liat, who had

been Otah's lover as well.

For the thousandth time, Maati put that thought aside.

When they reached the palaces, Maati again thanked Cehmai for taking the

time from his work to accompany him, and Cehmai-still with the

half-certain stance of a dog hearing an unfamiliar soundassured him that

he'd been pleased to do so. Maati watched the slight young man and his

thick-framed andat walk away across the flagstones of the courtyard.

Their hems were black and sodden, ruining the drape of the robes. Much

like his own, he knew.

Thankfully, his own apartments were warm. He stripped off his robes,

leaving them in a lump for the servants to remove to a launderer, and

replaced them with the thickest he had-lamb's wool and heavy leather

with a thin cotton lining. It was the sort that natives of Machi wore in

deep winter, but Maati pulled it close about him, vowing to use it

whenever he went out, whatever the others might think of him. His boots

thrown into a corner, he stretched his pale, numb feet almost into the

fire grate and shuddered. He would have to go to the wayhouse where

Biitrah Machi had died. The owners there had spoken to the officers of

the utkhaiem, of course. They had told their tale of the moonfaced man

who had come with letters of introduction, worked in their kitchens, and

been ready to take over for a night when the overseers all came down

ill. Still, he could not be sure there was nothing more to know unless

he made his visit. Some other day, when he could feel his toes.

The summons came to him when the sun-red and angry-was just preparing to

slide behind the mountains to the west. Maati pulled on thick, warm

boots of soft leather, added his brown poet's robes over the warmer

ones, and let himself be led to the Khai Machi's private chambers. He

passed through several rooms on his way-a hall of worked marble the

color of honey with a fountain running through it like a creek, a

meeting chamber large enough to hold two dozen at a single table, then a

smaller corridor that led to chambers of a more human size. Ahead of

him, a woman passed from one side of the corridor to the other leaving

the impression of night-black hair, warm brown skin, and robes the

yellow of sunrise. One of the wives, Maati knew, of a man who had several.

At last, the servant slid open a door of carved rosewood, and Maati

stepped into a room hardly larger than his own bedroom. The old man sat

on a couch, his feet toward the fire that burned in the grate. His robes

were lush, the silks seeming to take up the firelight and dance with it.

They seemed more alive than his flesh. Slowly, the Khai raised a clay

pipe to his mouth and puffed on it thoughtfully. The smoke smelled rich

and sweet as a cane field on fire.

Maati took a pose of greeting as formal as high court. The Khai Machi

raised an ancient eyebrow and only smiled. With the stem of the pipe, he

pointed to the couch opposite him and nodded to Maati that he should sit.

"They make me smoke this," the Khai said. "Whenever my belly troubles

me, they say. I tell them they might as well make it air, burn it by the

bushel in all the firekeeper's kilns, but they only laugh as if it were

wit, and I play along."

"Yes, most high."

There was a long pause as the Khai contemplated the flames. Maati

waited, uncertain. He noticed the catch in the Khai Machi's breath, as

if it pained him. He had not noticed it before.

"Your search for my outlaw son," the Khai said. "It is going well?"

"It is early yet, most high. I have made myself visible. I have let it

be known that I am looking into the death of your son."

"You still expect Otah to come to you?"

"Yes."

"And if he does not?"

"Then it will take more time, most high. But I will find him."

The old man nodded, then exhaled a plume of pale smoke. He took a pose

of gratitude, his wasted hands holding the position with the grace of a

lifetime's practice.

"His mother was a good woman. I miss her. Iyrah, her name was. She gave

me Idaan too. She was glad to have a child of her own that she could keep."

Maati thought he saw the old man's eyes glisten for a moment, lost as he

was in old memories of which Maati could only guess the substance. Then

the Khai sighed.

"Idaan," the Khai said. "She's treated you gently?"

"She's been nothing but kind," Maati said, "and very generous with her

time."

The Khai shook his head, smiling more to himself than his audience.

"That's good. She was always unpredictable. Age has calmed her, I think.

There was a time she would study outrages the way most girls study face

paints and sandals. Always sneaking puppies into court or stealing

dresses she fancied from her little friends. She relied on me to keep

her safe, however far she flew," he said, smiling fondly. "A mischievous

girl, my daughter, but good-hearted. I'm proud of her."

Then he sobered.

"I am proud of all my children. It's why I am not of one mind on this,"

the Khai said. "You would think that I should be, but I am not. With

every day that the search continues, the truce holds, and Kaiin and

Danat still live. I've known since I was old enough to know anything

that if I took this chair, my sons would kill each other. It wasn't so

hard before I knew them, when they were only the idea of sons. But then

they were Biitrah and Kaiin and Danat. And I don't want any of them to die."

"But tradition, most high. If they did not-"

"I know why they must," the Khai said. "I was only wishing. It's

something dying men do, I'm told. Sit with their regrets. It's likely

that which kills us as much as the sickness. I sometimes wish that this

had all happened years ago. That they had slaughtered each other in

their childhood. Then I might have at least one of them by me now. I had

not wanted to die alone."

"You are not alone, most high. The whole court . .

Maati broke off. The Khai Machi took a pose accepting correction, but

the amusement in his eyes and the angle of his shoulders made a sarcasm

of it. Maati nodded, accepting the old man's point.

"I can't say which of them I would have wanted to live, though," the

Khai said, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. "I love them all. Very

dearly. I cannot tell you how deeply I miss Biitrah."

"Had you known him, you would have loved Otah as well."

"You think so? Certainly you knew him better than I. I can't think he

would have thought well of me," the Khai said. Then, "Did you go back?

After you took your robes? Did you go to see you parents?"

"My father was very old when I went to the school," Maati said. "He died

before I completed my training. We did not know each other."

"So you have never had a family."

"I have, most high," Maati said, fighting to keep the tightness in his

chest from changing the tone of his voice. "A lover and a son. I had a

family once."

"But no longer. They died?"

"They live. Only not with me."

The Khai considered him, bloodshot eyes blinking slowly. With his thin,

wrinkled skin, he reminded Maati of a very old turtle or else a very

young bird. The Khai's gaze softened, his brows tilting in understanding

and sorrow.

"It is never easy for fathers," the Khai said. "Perhaps if the world had

needed less from us."

Maati waited a long moment until he trusted his voice.

"Perhaps, most high."

The Khai exhaled a breath of gray, his gaze trapped by the smoke.

"It isn't the world I knew when I was young," the old man said.

"Everything changed when Saraykeht fell."

"The Khai Saraykeht has a poet," Maati said. "He has the power of the

andat."

"It took the Dai-kvo eight years and six failed bindings," the Khai

said. "And every time word came of another failure, I could see it in

the faces of the court. The utkhaiem may put on proud faces, but I've

seen the fear that swims under that ice. And you were there. You said so

in the audience when I greeted you."

"Yes, most high."

"But you didn't say everything you knew," the Khai said. "Did you?"

The yellowed eyes fixed on Maati. The intelligence in them was

unnerving. Maati felt himself squirming, and wondering what had happened

to the melancholy dying man he'd been speaking with only moments before.

"I ... that is ..."

"There were rumors that the poet's death was more than an angry east

island girl's revenge. The Galts were mentioned."

"And Eddensea," Maati said. "And Eymond. There was no end of accusation,

most high. Some even believed what they charged. When the cotton trade

collapsed, a great number of people lost a great amount of money. And

prestige."

"They lost more than that," the Khai said, leaning forward and stabbing

at the air with the stem of his pipe. "The money, the trade. The

standing among the cities. They don't signify. Saraykeht was the death

of certainty. They lost the conviction that the Khaiem would hold the

world at bay, that war would never come to Saraykeht. And we lost it

here too."

"If you say so, most high."

"The priests say that something touched by chaos is never made whole,"

the Khai said, sinking back into his cushions. "Do you know what they

mean by that, Maati-cha?"

"I have some idea," Maati said, but the Khai went on.

"It means that something unthinkable can only happen once. Because after

that, it's not unthinkable any longer. We've seen what happens when a

city is touched by chaos. And now it's in the back of every head in

every court in all the cities of the Khaiem."

Maati frowned and leaned forward.

"You think Cehrnai-cha is in some danger?"

"What?" the Khai said, then waved the thought away, stirring the smoky

air. "No. Not that. I think my city is at risk. I think Otah ... my

upstart son ..."

He's forgiven you, a voice murmured in the back of Maati's mind. The

voice of Seedless, the andat of Saraykeht. They were the words the andat

had spoken to Maati in the instant before Heshai's death had freed it.

It had been speaking of Otah.

"I've called you here for a reason, Maati-cha," the Khai said, and Maati

pulled his attention back to the present. "I didn't care to speak of it

around those who would use it to fuel gossip. Your inquiry into

Biitrah's death. You must move more quickly."

"Even with the truce?"

"Yes, even at the price of my sons returning to their tradition. If I

die without a successor chosen-especially if Danat and Kaiin are still

gone to ground-there will be chaos. The families of the utkhaiem start

thinking that perhaps they would sit more comfortably in my chair, and

schemes begin. Your task isn't only to find Otah. Your task is to

protect my city."

"I understand, most high."

"You do not, Maati-cha. The spring roses are starting to bloom, and I

will not see high summer. Neither of us has the luxury of time."

THE GATHERING WAS ALL THAT CEHMAI HAD HOPED FOR, AND LESS. SPRING

breezes washed the pavilion with the scent of fresh flowers. Kilns set

along the edges roared behind the music of reed organ, flute, and drum.

Overhead, the stars shone like gems strewn on dark velvet. The long

months of winter had given musicians time to compose and practice new

songs, and the youth of the high families week after weary week to tire

of the cold and dark and the terrible constriction that deep winter

brought to those with no business to conduct on the snow.

Cehmai laughed and clapped time with the music and danced. Women and

girls caught his eye, and he, theirs. The heat of youth did where

heavier robes would otherwise have been called for, and the draw of body

to body filled the air with something stronger than the perfume of

flowers. Even the impending death of the Khai lent an air of license.

Momentous things were happening, the world's order was changing, and

they were young enough to find the thought romantic.

And yet he could not enjoy it.

A young man in an eagle's mask pressed a bowl of hot wine into his hand,

and spun away into the dance. Cehmai grinned, sipped at it, and faded

back to the edge of the pavilion. In the shadows behind the kilns,

Stone-Made-Soft stood motionless. Cehmai sat beside it, put the bowl on

the grass, and watched the revelry. Two young men had doffed their robes

entirely and were sprinting around the wide grounds in nothing but their

masks and long scarves trailing from their necks. The andat shifted like

the first shudder of a landslide, then was still again. When it spoke,

its voice was so soft that they would not be heard by the others.

"It wouldn't he the first time the Dai-kvo had lied."

"Or the first time I'd wondered why," Cehmai said. "It's his to decide

what to say and to whom."

"And yours?"

"And mine to satisfy my curiosity. You heard what he said to the

overseer in the mines. If he truly didn't want me to know, he would have

lied better. Maati-kvo is looking into more than the library, and that's

certain."

The andat sighed. Stone-blade-Soft had no more need of breath than did a

mountainside. The exhalation could only be a comment. Cehmai felt the

subject of their conversation changing even before the andat spoke.

"She's come."

And there, dressed black as rooks and pale as mourning, Idaan Machi

moved among the dancers. Her mask hid only part of her face and not her

identity. Wrapped as he was by the darkness, she did not see him. Cehmai

felt a lightening in his breast as he watched her move through the

crowd, greeting friends and looking, he thought, for something or

perhaps someone among them. She was not beautiful-well painted, but any

number of the girls and women were more nearly perfect. She was not the

most graceful, or the best spoken, or any of the hundred things that

Cehmai thought of when he tried to explain to himself why this girl

should fascinate him. The closest he could come was that she was

interesting, and none of the others were.

"It won't end well," the andat murmured.

"It hasn't begun," Cehmai said. "How can something end when it hasn't

even started?"

Stone-blade-Soft sighed again, and Cehmai rose, tugging at his robes to

smooth their lines. The music had paused and someone in the crowd

laughed long and high.

"Come back when you've finished and we'll carry on our conversation,"

the andat said.

Cchmai ignored the patience in its voice and strode forward, back into

the light. The reed organ struck a chord just as he reached Idaan's

side. He brushed her arm, and she turned-first annoyed and then

surprised and then, he thought, pleased.

"Idaan-cha," he said, the exaggerated formality acting as its opposite

without taking him quite into the intimacy that the kya suffix would

have suggested. "I'd almost thought you wouldn't be joining us."

"I almost wasn't," she said. "I hadn't thought you'd be here."

The organ set a beat, and the drums picked it up; the dance was

beginning again. Cehmai held out a hand and, after a pause that took a

thousand years and lasted perhaps a breath, Idaan took it. The music

began in earnest, and Cehmai spun her, took her under his arm, and was

turned by her. It was a wild tune, rich and fast with a rhythm like a

racing heart. Around him the others were grinning, though not at him.

Idaan laughed, and he laughed with her. The paving stones beneath them

seemed to echo hack the song, and the sky above them received it.

As they turned to face each other, he could see the flush in Idaan's

check, and felt the same blood in his own, and then the music whirled

them off again.

In the center of the frenzy, someone took Cehmai's elbow from behind,

and something round and hard was pressed into his hands. A man's voice

whispered urgently in his ear.

"Hold this."

Cehmai faltered, confused, and the moment was gone. He was suddenly

standing alone in a throng of people, holding an empty bowl-a thread of

wine wetting the rim-while Adrah Vaunyogi took Idaan Machi through the

steps and turns of the dance. The pair shifted away from him, left him

behind. Cehmai felt the flush in his cheek brighten. He turned and

walked through the shifting bodies, handing the bowl to a servant as he

left.

"He is her lover," the andat said. "Everyone knows it."

"I don't," Cehmai said.

"I just told you."

"You tell me things all the time; it doesn't mean I agree to them."

"This thing you have in mind," Stone-Made-Soft said. "You shouldn't do it."

Cehmai looked up into the calm gray eyes set in the wide, placid face.

He felt his own head lift in defiance, even as he knew the words were

truth. It was stupid and mean and petty. Adrah Vaunyogi wasn't even

entirely in the wrong. There was a perspective by which the little

humiliation Cehmai had been dealt was a small price for flirting so

openly with another man's love.

And yet.

The andat nodded slowly and turned to consider the dancers. It was easy

enough to pick out Idaan and Adrah. They were too far for Cehmai to be

sure, but he liked to think she was frowning. It hardly mattered. Cehmai

focused on Adrah's movements-his feet, shifting in time with the drums

while Idaan danced to the flutes. He doubled his attention, feeling it

through his own body and also the constant storm at the hack of his

mind. In that instant he was both of them-a single being with two bodies

and a permanent struggle at the heart. And then, at just the moment when

Adrah's foot came hack to catch his weight, Cehmai reached out. The

paving stone gave way, the smooth stone suddenly soft as mud, and Adrah

stumbled backward and fell, landing on his rear, legs splayed. Cehmai

waited a moment for the stone to flow back nearer to smooth, then let

his consciousness return to its usual state. The storm that was

Stone-Made-Soft was louder, more present in his mind, like the proud

flesh where a thorn has scratched skin. And like a scratch, Cehmai knew

it would subside.

"We should go," Cehmai said, "before I'm tempted to do something childish."

The andat didn't answer, and Cehmai led the way through the nightdark

gardens. The music floated in the distance and then faded. Far from the

kilns and dancing, the night was cold-not freezing, but near it. But the

stars were brighter, and the moon glowed: a rim of silver that made the

starless thumbprint darker by contrast. They passed by the temple and

the counting house, the bathhouse and base of the great tower. The andat

turned down a side path then, and paused when Cehmai did not follow.

Stone-Made-Soft took a pose of query.

"Is this not where you were going?" it asked.

Cehmai considered, and then smiled.

"I suppose it is," he said, and followed the captive spirit down the

curving pathway and up the wide, shallow steps that led to the library.

The great stone doors were barred from within, but Cehmai followed the

thin gravel path at the side of the building, keeping close to the wall.

The windows of Baarath's apartments glowed with more than a night

candle's light. Even with the night half gone, he was awake. The door

slave was an ancient man, and Cehmai had to shake him by the shoulder

before he woke, retreated into the apartments, and returned to lead them in.

The apartments smelled of old wine, and the sandalwood resin that

Baarath burned in his brazier. The tables and couches were covered with

books and scrolls, and no cushion had escaped from some ink stain.

Baarath, dressed in deep red robes thick as tapestry, rose from his desk

and took a pose of welcome. His copper tore of office was lying

discarded on the floor at his feet.

"Cehmai-cha, to what do I owe this honor?"

Cehmai frowned. "Are you angry with me?" he asked.

"Of course not, great poet. How could a poor man of books dare to feel

angry with a personage like yourself?"

"Gods," Cehmai said as he shifted a pile of papers from a wide chair. "I

don't know, Baarath-kya. Do tell me."

"Kya? Oh, you are too familiar with me, great poet. I would not suggest

so deep a friendship as that with a man so humble as myself."

"You're right," Cehmai said, sitting. "I was trying to flatter you. Did

it work?"

"You should have brought wine," the stout man said, taking his own seat.

The false graciousness was gone, and a sour impatience in its place.

"And come at an hour when living men could talk business. Isn't it late

for you to be wandering around like a dazed rabbit?"

"There was a gathering at the rose pavilion. I was just going back to my

apartments and I noticed the lights burning."

Baarath made a sound between a snort and a cough. Stone-MadeSoft gazed

placidly at the marble walls, thoughtful as a lumberman judging the best

way to fell a tree. Cehmai frowned at him, and the andat replied with a

gesture more eloquent than any pose. Don't blame me. He's your friend,

not mine.

"I wanted to ask how things were proceeding with Maati Vaupathai,"

Cehmai said.

"About time someone took an interest in that annoying, feckless idiot.

I've met cows with more sense than he has."

"Not proceeding well, then?"

"Who can tell? Weeks, it's been. He's only here about half the morning,

and then he's off dining with the dregs of the court, taking meetings

with trading houses, and loafing about in the low towns. If I were the

Dai-kvo, I'd pull that man back home and set him to plowing fields. I've

eaten hens that were better scholars."

"Cows and hens. He'll be a whole farmyard soon," Cehmai said, but his

mind was elsewhere. "What does he study when he is here?"

"Nothing in particular. He picks up whatever strikes him and spends a

day with it, and then comes hack the next for something totally

unrelated. I haven't told him about the Khai's private archives, and he

hasn't bothered to ask. I was sure, you know, when he first came, that

he was after something in the private archives. But now it's like the

library itself might as well not exist."

"Perhaps there is some pattern in what he's looking at. A common thread

that places them all together."

"You mean maybe poor old Baarath is too simple to see the picture when

it's being painted for him? I doubt it. I know this place better than

any man alive. I've even made my own shelving system. I have read more

of these books and seen more of their relationships than anyone. When I

tell you he's wandering about like tree fluff on a breezy day, it's

because he is."

Cehmai tried to feel surprise, and failed. The library was only an

excuse. The Dai-kvo had sent Maati Vaupathai to examine the death of

Biitrah Machi. That was clear. Why he would choose to do so, was not. It

wasn't the poets' business to take sides in the succession, only to work

with-and sometimes cool the ambitions of-whichever son sur vived. The

Khaiem administered the city, accepted the glory and tribute, passed

judgment. The poets kept the cities from ever going to war one against

the other, and fueled the industries that brought wealth from the

Westlands and Galt, Bakta, and the east islands. But something had

happened, or was happening, that had captured the Dai-kvo's interest.

And Maati Vaupathai was an odd poet. He held no post, trained under no

one. He was old to attempt a new binding. By many standards, he was

already a failure. The only thing Cehmai knew of him that stood out at

all was that Maati had been in Saraykeht when that city's poet was

murdered and the andat set free. He thought of the man's eyes, the

darkness that they held, and a sense of unease troubled him.

"I don't know what the point of that sort of grammar would be," Baarath

said. "Dalani Toygu's was better for one thing, and half the length."

Cehmai realized that the Baarath had been talking this whole time, that

the subject had changed, and in fact they were in the middle of a debate

on a matter he couldn't identify. All this without the need that he speak.

"I suppose you're right," Cehmai said. "I hadn't seen it from that angle."

Stone-Made-Soft's calm, constant near-smile widened slightly.

"You should have, though. That's my point. Grammars and translations and

the subtleties of thought are your trade. That I know more about it than

you and that Maati person is a bad sign for the world. Note this,

Cehmai-kya, write down that I said it. It's that kind of ignorance that

will destroy the Khaiem."

"I'll write down that you said it," Cehmai said. "In fact, I'll go back

to my apartments right now and do that. And afterwards, I'll crawl into

bed, I think."

"So soon?"

"The night candle's past its center mark," Cehmai said.

"Fine. Go. When I was your age, I would stay up nights in a row for the

sake of a good conversation like this, but I suppose the generations

weaken, don't they?"

Cehmai took a pose of farewell, and Baarath returned it.

"Come by tomorrow, though," Baarath said as they left. "There's some old

imperial poetry I've translated that might interest you."

Outside, the night had grown colder, and few lanterns lit the paths and

streets. Cehmai pulled his arms in from their sleeves and held his

fingers against his sides for warmth. His breath plumed blue-white in

the faint moonlight, and even the distant scent of pine resin made the

air seem colder.

"He doesn't think much of our guest," Cehmai said. "I would have thought

he'd be pleased that Maati took little interest in the books, after all

the noise he made."

When Stone-Made-Soft spoke, its breath did not fog. "He's like a girl

bent on protecting her virginity until she finds no one wants it."

Cehmai laughed.

"That is entirely too apt," he said, and the andat took a pose accepting

the compliment.

"You're going to do something," it said.

"I'm going to pay attention," Cehmai said. "If something needs doing,

I'll try to be on hand."

They turned down the cobbled path that led to the poet's house. The

sculpted oaks that lined it rustled in the faint breeze, rubbing new

leaves together like a thousand tiny hands. Cehmai wished that he'd

thought to bring a candle from Baarath's. He imagined Maati Vaupathai

standing in the shadows with his appraising gaze and mysterious agenda.

"You're frightened of him," the andat said, but Cehmai didn't answer.

There was someone there among the trees-a shape shifting in the

darkness. He stopped and slid his arms back into their sleeves. The

andat stopped as well. They weren't far from the house-Cehmai could see

the glow of the lantern left out before his doorway. The story of a poet

slaughtered in a distant city raced in his mind until the figure came

out between him and his doorway, silhouetted in the dim light. Cehmai's

heart didn't slow, but it did change contents.

She still wore the half-mask she'd had at the gathering. Her black and

white robes shifted, the cloth so rich and soft, and he could hear it

even over the murmur of the trees. He stepped toward her, taking a pose

of welcome.

"Idaan," he said. "Is there something ... I didn't expect to find you

here. I mean ... I'm doing this rather badly, aren't l?"

"Start again," she said.

"Idaan."

"Cehmai."

She took a step toward him. He could see the flush in her cheek and

smell the faint, nutty traces of distilled wine on her breath. When she

spoke, her words were sharp and precise.

"I saw what you did to Adrah," she said. "He left a heel mark in the stone."

"Have I given offense?" he asked.

"Not to me. He didn't see it, and I didn't say."

In the back of his mind, or in some quarter of his flesh, Cehmai felt

Stone-Made-Soft receding as if in answer to his own wish. They were

alone on the dark path.

"It's difficult for you, isn't it?" she said. "Being a part of the court

and yet not. Being among the most honored men in the city, and yet not

of Machi."

"I bear it. You've been drinking."

"I have. But I know who I am and where I am. I know what I'm doing."

"What are you doing, Idaan-kya?"

"Poets can't take wives, can they?"

"We don't, no. There's not often room in our lives for a family."

"And lovers?"

Cehmai felt his breath coming faster and willed it to slow. An echo of

amusement in the back of his mind was not his own thought. He ignored it.

"Poets take lovers," he said.

She stepped nearer again, not touching, not speaking. There was no chill

to the air now. There was no darkness. Cehmai's senses were as fresh and

bright and clear as midday, his mind as focused as the first day he'd

controlled the andat. Idaan took his hand and slowly, deliberately, drew

it through the folds of her robes until it cupped her breast.

"You ... you have a lover, Idaan-kya. Adrah ..."

"Do you want me to sleep here tonight?"

"Yes, Idaan. I do."

"And I want that too."

He struggled to think, but his skin felt as though he was basking in

some hidden sun. There seemed to be some sound in his ears that he

couldn't place that drove away everything but his fingertips and the

cold-stippled flesh beneath them.

"I don't understand why you're doing this," he said.

Her lips parted, and she moved half an inch back. His hand pressed

against her skin, his eyes were locked on hers. Fear sang through him

that she would take another step back, that his fingers would only

remember this moment, that this chance would pass. She saw it in his

face, she must have, because she smiled, calm and knowing and sure of

herself, like something from a dream.

"Do you care?" she asked.

"No," he said, half-surprised at the answer. "No, I truly don't."

THE CARAVAN LEFT THE LOW TOWN BEFORE DAWN, CARTWHEELS RATTLING on the

old stone paving, oxen snorting white in the cold, and the voices of

carters and merchants light with the anticipation of journey's end. The

weeks of travel were past. By midday, they would cross the bridge over

the Tidat and enter Machi. The companionship of the roadalready somewhat

strained by differences in political opinions and some unfortunate words

spoken by one of the carters early in the journeywould break apart, and

each of them would be about his own business again. Otah walked with his

hands in his sleeves and his heart divided between dread and

anticipation. Irani Noygu was going to Machi on the business of his

house-the satchel of letters at his side proved that. There was nothing

he carried with him that would suggest anything else. He had come away

from this city as a child so long ago he had only shreds of memory left

of it. A scent of musk, a stone corridor, bathing in a copper tub when

he was small enough to be lifted with a single hand, a view from the top

of one of the towers. Other things as fragmentary, as fleeting. He could

not say which memories were real and which only parts of dreams.

It was enough, he supposed, to be here now, walking in the darkness. He

would go and see it with a man's eyes. He would see this place that had

sent him forth and, despite all his struggles, still had the power to

poison the life he'd built for himself. Itani Noygu had made his way as

an indentured laborer at the seafronts of Saraykeht, as a translator and

fisherman and midwife's assistant in the east islands, as a sailor on a

merchant ship, and as a courier in House Siyanti and all through the

cities. He could write and speak in three tongues, play the flute badly,

tell jokes well, cook his own meals over a half-dead fire, and comport

himself well in any company from the ranks of the utkhaiem to the

denizens of the crudest dockhouse. This from a twelve-year-old boy who

had named himself, been his own father and mother, formed a life out of

little more than the will to do so. Irani Noygu was by any sane standard

a success.

It was Otah Machi who had lost Kiyan's love.

The sky in the east lightened to indigo and then royal blue, and Otah

could see the road out farther ahead. Between one breath and the next,

the oxen came clearer. And the plains before them opened like a vast

scroll. Far to the north, mountains towered, looking flat as a painting

and blued by the distance. Smoke rose from low towns and mines on the

plain, the greener pathway of trees marked the river, and on the

horizon, small as fingers, rose the dark towers of Machi, unnatural in

the landscape.

Otah stopped as sunlight lit the distant peaks like a fire. The

brilliance crept down and then the distant towers blazed suddenly, and a

moment later, the plain flooded with light. Otah caught his breath.

This is where I started, he thought. I come from here.

He had to trot to catch hack up with the caravan, but the questioning

looks were all answered with a grin and a gesture. The enthusiastic

courier still nave enough to be amazed by a sunrise. There was nothing

more to it than that.

House Siyanti kept no quarters in Machi, but the gentleman's trade had

its provisions for this. Other Houses would extend courtesy even to

rivals so long as it was understood that the intrigues and prying were

kept to decorous levels. If a courier were to act against a rival House

or carried information that would too deeply tempt his hosts, it was

better form to pay for a room elsewhere. Nothing Otah carried was so

specific or so valuable, and once the caravan had made its trek across

the plain and passed over the wide, sinuous bridge into Machi, Otah made

his way to the compound of House Nan.

The structure itself was a gray block three stories high that faced a

wide square and shared walls with the buildings on either side. Otah

stopped by a street cart and bought a bowl of hot noodles in a smoky

black sauce for two lengths of copper and watched the people passing by

with a kind of doubled impression. He saw them as the subjects of his

training: people clumped at the firekeepers' kilns and streetcarts meant

a lively culture of gossip, women walking alone meant little fear of

violence, and so on in the manner that was his profession. He also saw

them as the inhabitants of his childhood. A statue of the first Khai

Machi stood in the square, his noble expression undermined by the pigeon

streaks. An old, rag-wrapped beggar sat on the street, a black lacquer

box before her, and chanted songs. The forges were only a few streets

away, and Otah could smell the sharp smoke; could even, he thought, hear

the faint sound of metal on metal. He sucked down the last of the

noodles and handed back the howl to a man easily twice his age.

"You're new to the north," the man said, not unkindly.

"Does it show?" Otah asked.

"Thick robes. It's spring, and this is warm. If you'd been here over

winter, your blood would be able to stand a little cold."

Otah laughed, but made note. If he were to fit in well, it would mean

suffering the cold. He would have to sit with that. He did want to

understand the place, to see it, if only for a time, through the eyes of

a native, but he didn't want to swim in ice water just because that was

the local custom.

The door servant at the gray House Nan left him waiting in the street

for a while, then returned to usher him to his quarters-a small,

windowless room with four stacked cots that suggested he would be

sharing the small iron brazier in the center of the room with seven

other men, though he was the only one present just then. He thanked the

servant, learned the protocols for entering and leaving the house, got

directions to the nearest bathhouse, and after placing the oiled leather

pouch that held his letters safely with the steward, went back out to

wash off the journey.

The bathhouse smelled of iron pipes and sandalwood, but the air was warm

and thick. A launderer had set tip shop at the front, and Otah gave over

his robes to be scrubbed and kiln-dried with the understanding that it

doomed him to be in the baths for at least the time it took the sun to

move the width of two hands. He walked naked to the public baths and

eased himself into the warm water with a sigh.

"Hai!" a voice called, and Otah opened his eyes. Two older men and a

young woman sat on the same submerged bench on which he rested. One of

the older men spoke.

"You've just come in with the `van?"

"Indeed," Otah said. "Though I hope you could tell by looking more than

smell."

"Where from?"

"Udun, most recently."

The trio moved closer. The woman introduced them all-overseers for a

metalworkers group. Silversmiths, mostly. Otah was gracious and ordered

tea for them all and set about learning what they knew and thought, felt

and feared and hoped for, and all of it with smiles and charm and just

slightly less wit displayed than their own. It was his craft, and they

knew it as well as he did, and would exchange their thoughts and

speculations for his gossip. It was the way of traders and merchants the

world over.

It was not long before the young woman mentioned the name of Otah Machi.

"If it is the upstart behind it all, it's a poor thing for Machi," the

older man said. "None of the trading houses would know him or trust him.

None of the families of the utkhaiem would have ties to him. Even if

he's simply never found, the new Khai will always he watching over his

shoulder. It isn't good to have an uncertain line in the Khai's chair.

The best thing that could happen for the city would be to find him and

put a knife through his belly. Him, and any children he's got meantime."

Otah smiled because it was what a courier of House Siyanti would do. The

younger man sniffed and sipped his bowl of tea. The woman shrugged, the

motion setting small waves across the water.

"It might do us well to have someone new running the city," she said.

"It's clear enough that nothing will change with either of the two

choices we have now. Biitrah. He at least was interested in mechanism.

The Galts have been doing more and more with their little devices, and

we'd be fools to ignore what they've managed."

"Children's toys," the older man said, waving the thought away.

"Toys that have made them the greatest threat Eddensea and the Westlands

have seen," the younger man said. "Their armies can move faster than

anyone else's. There isn't a warden who hasn't felt the bite of them. If

they haven't been invaded, they've had to offer tribute to the Lords

Convocate, and that's just as bad."

"The ward being sacked might disagree," Otah said, trying for a joke to

lighten the mood.

"The problem with the Galts," the woman said, "is they can't hold what

they take. Every year it's another raid, another sack, another fleet

carrying slaves and plunder back to Galt. But they never keep the land.

They'd have much more money if they stayed and ruled the Westlands. Or

Eymond. Or Eddensea."

"Then we'd have only them to trade with," the younger man said. "That'd

be ugly."

"The Galts don't have the andat," the older man said, and his tone

carried the rest: they don't have the andat, so they are not worth

considering.

"But if they did," Otah said, hoping to keep the subject away from

himself and his family. "Or if we did not-"

"If the sky dives into the sea, we'll be fishing for birds," the older

man said. "It's this Otah Machi who's uneasing things. I have it on good

authority that Danat and Kaiin have actually called a truce between them

until they can rout out the traitor."

"Traitor?" Otah asked. "I hadn't heard that of him."

"There are stories," the younger man said. "Nothing anyone has proved.

Six years ago, the Khai fell ill, and for a few days, they thought he

might die. Some people suspected poison."

"And hasn't he turned to poison again? Look at Biitrah's death," the

younger man said. "And I tell you the Khai Machi hasn't been himself

since then, not truly. Even if Otah were to claim the chair, it'd be

better to punish him for his crimes and raise up one of the high families."

"It could have been had fish," the woman said. "There was a lot of bad

fish that year."

"No one believes that," the older man said.

"Which of the others would be best for the city now that Biitrah is

gone?" Otah asked.

The older man named Kaiin, and the younger man and woman Danat, in the

same moment, the syllables grinding against each other in the warm, damp

air, and they immediately fell to debate. Kaiin was a master negotiator;

Danat was better thought of by the utkhaiem. Kaiin was prone to fits of

temper, Danat to weeks of sloth. Each man, to hear it, was a paragon of

virtue and little better than a street thug. Otah listened, interjected

comments, asked questions crafted to keep the conversation alive and on

its course. His mind was hardly there.

When at last he made his excuses, the three debaters hardly paused in

their wrangle. Otah dried himself by a brazier and collected his

robes-laundered now, smelling of cedar oil and warm from the kiln. The

streets were fuller than when he had gone into the bathhouse. The sun

would fall early, disappearing behind the peaks to the west long before

the sky grew dark, but it still hovered two hands above the mountainous

horizon.

Otah walked without knowing where he was walking to. The black cobbles

and tall houses seemed familiar and exotic at the same time. The towers

rose into the sky, glowing in the sunlight. At the intersection of three

large streets, Otah found a courtyard with a great stone archway inlaid

with wood and metal sigils of chaos and order. Harsh forge smoke from

the east mixed with the greasy scent of a cart seller's roasting duck

and, for a moment, Otah was possessed by the memory of being a child no

more than four summers old. The smoke scent wove with the taste of

honeybread nearly too hot to eat, the clear open view of the valley and

mountains from the top of the towers, and a woman's skin-mother or

sister or servant. There was no way to know.

It was a ghost memory, strong and certain as stone, but without a place

in his life. Something had happened, once, that tied all these senses

together, but it was gone and he would never have it. He was upstart and

traitor. Poisoner and villain. None of it was true, but it made for an

interesting story to tell in the teahouses and meeting rooms-a variation

on the theme of fratricide that the Khaiem replayed in every generation.

A deep fatigue pressed into him. He had been an innocent to think that

he might be forgotten, that Otah Machi might escape the venomous

speculation of the traders and merchants, high families and low

townsmen. There was no use for truth when spectacle was at issue. And

there was nothing in the city that could matter less than the

halfrecalled memories of a courier's abandoned childhood. The life he'd

built mattered less than ashes to these people. His death would be a

relief to them.

He returned to House Nan just as the stars began to glimmer in the deep

northern sky. There was fresh bread and pepper-baked lamb, distilled

rice wine and cold water. The other men who were to share his room

joined him at the table, and they laughed and joked, traded information

and gossip from across the world. Otah slid back comfortably into Itani

Noygu, and his smiles came more easily as the night wore on, though a

cold core remained in his breast. It was only just before he went to

crawl into his cot that he found the steward, recovered his pouch of

letters, and prepared himself.

All the letters were, of course, still sewn shut, but Otah checked the

knots. None had been undone so far as he could tell. It would have been

a breach of the gentleman's trade to open letters held in trust, and it

would have been foolishness to trust to honor. Had House Nan been

willing to break trust, that would have been interesting to know as

well. He laid them out on his cot, considering.

Letters to the merchant houses and lower families among the utkhaiem

were the most common. He didn't carry a letter for the Khai himself-he

would have balked at so high a risk-but his work would take him to the

palaces. And there were audiences, no doubt, to which he could get an

invitation. If he chose, he could go to the Master of Tides and claim

business with members of the court. It wouldn't even require stretching

the truth very far. He sat in silence, feeling as if there were two men

within him.

One wanted nothing more than to embrace the fear and flee to some

distant island and be pleased to live wondering whether his brothers

would still be searching him out. The other was consumed by an anger

that drove him forward, deeper into the city of his birth and the family

that had first discarded him and then fashioned a murderer from his memory.

Fear and anger. He waited for the calm third voice of wisdom, but it

didn't come. He was left with no better plan than to act as Irani Noygu

would have, had he been nothing other than he appeared. When at last he

repacked his charges and lay on his cot, he expected that sleep would

not come, but it did, and he woke in the morning forgetful of where he

was and surprised to find that Kiyan was not in the bed beside him.

The palaces of the Khai were deep within the city, and the gardens

around them made it seem more like a walk into some glorious low town

than movement into the center of a great city. Trees arched over the

walkways, branches bright with new leaves. Birds fluttered past him,

reminding him of Udun and the wayhouse he had almost made his home. The

greatest tower loomed overhead, dark stone rising up like twenty

palaces, one above the other. Otah stopped in a courtyard before the

lesser palace of the Master of Tides and squinted up at the great tower,

wondering whether he had ever been to the top of it. Wondering whether

being here, now, was valor, cowardice, foolishness, or wisdom; the

product of anger or fear or the childish drive to show that he could

defy them all if he chose.

He gave his name to the servants at the door and was led to an an

techamber larger than his apartments back in Udun. A slave girl plucked

a lap harp, filling the high air with a sweet, slow tune. He smiled at

her and took a pose of appreciation. She returned his smile and nodded,

but her fingers never left the strings. The servant, when he came, wore

robes of deep red shot with yellow and a silver armband. He took a pose

of greeting so brief it almost hadn't happened.

"Irani Noygu. You're Itani Noygu, then? Ah, good. I am Piyun See, the

Master of Tides' assistant. He's too busy to see you himself. So House

Siyanti has taken an interest in Machi, then?" he said. Otah smiled,

though he meant it less this time.

"I couldn't say. I only go where they send me, Piyun-cha."

The assistant took a pose of agreement.

"I had hoped to know the court's schedule in the next week," Otah said.

"I have business-"

"With the poet. Yes, I know. He left your name with us. He said we

should keep a watch out for you. You're wise to come to us first. You

wouldn't imagine the people who simply drift through on the breeze as if

the poets weren't members of the court."

Otah smiled, his mouth tasting of fear, his heart suddenly racing. The

poet of Machi-Cehmai 'Ivan, his name was-had no reason to know Itani

Noygu or expect him. This was a mistake or a trap. If it was a trap, it

was sloppy, and if a mistake, dangerous. The lie came to his lips as

gracefully as a rehearsed speech.

"I'm honored to have been mentioned. I hadn't expected that he would

remember me. But I'm afraid the business I've come on may not be what he

had foreseen."

"I wouldn't know," the assistant said as he shifted. "Visiting

dignitaries might confide in the Master of Tides, but I'm like you. I

follow orders. Now. Let me see. I can send a runner to the library, and

if he's there ..."

"Perhaps it would be best if I went to the poet's house," Otah said. "He

can find me there when he isn't-"

"Oh, we haven't put him there. Gods! He has his own rooms."

"His own rooms?"

"Yes. We have a poet of our own, you know. We aren't going to put

Cehmai-cha on a cot in the granary every time the Dai-kvo sends us a

guest. Maati-cha has apartments near the library."

The air seemed to leave the room. A dull roar filled Otah's ears, and he

had to put a hand to the wall to keep from swaying. Maati-cha. The name

came like an unforeseen blow.

Maati Vaupathai. Maati whom Otah had known briefly at the school, and to

whom he had taught the secrets he had learned before he turned his back

on the poets and all they offered. Maati whom he had found again in

Saraykeht, who had become his friend and who knew that Irani Noygu was

the son of the Khai Machi.

The last night they had seen one another-thirteen, fourteen summers

ago-Maati had stolen his lover and Otah had killed Maati's master. He

was here now, in Machi. And he was looking for Otah. He felt like a deer

surprised by the hunter at its side.

The servant girl fumbled with her strings, the notes of the tune coming

out a jangle, and Otah shifted his gaze to her as if she'd shouted. For

a moment, their eyes met and he saw discomfort in her as she hurried

back to her song. She might have seen something in his face, might have

realized who was standing before her. Otah balled his fists at his

sides, pressing them into his thighs to keep from shaking. The assistant

had been speaking. Otah didn't know what he'd said.

"Forgive me, but before we do anything, would you be so kind . . . "

Otah feigned an embarrassed simper. "I'm afraid I had one bowl of tea

too many this morning, and waters that run in, run out...."

"Of course. I'll have a slave take you to-"

"No need," Otah said as he stepped to the door. No one shouted. No one

stopped him. "I'll be back with you in a moment."

He walked out of the hall, forcing himself not to run though he could

feel his heartbeat in his neck, and his ribs seemed too small for his

breath. He waited for the warning yell to come-armsmen with drawn blades

or the short, simple pain of an arrow in his breast. Generations of his

uncles had spilled their blood, spat their last breaths perhaps here,

under these arches. He was not immune. Irani Noygu would not protect

him. He controlled himself as best he could, and when he reached the

gardens, boughs shielding him from the eyes of the palaces, he bolted.

IDAAN SAT AT THE OPEN SKY DOORS, HER LEGS HANGING OUT OVER THE VOID, and

let her gaze wander the moonlit valley. The glimmers of the low towns to

the south. The Daikani mine where her brother had gone to die. The

Poinyat mines to the west and southeast. And below the soles of her bare

feet, Machi itself: the smoke rising from the forges, the torches and

lanterns glimmering in the streets and windows smaller and dimmer than

fireflies. The winches and pulleys hung in the darkness above her, long

lengths of iron chain in guides and hooks set in the stone, ready to be

freed should there be call to haul something tip to the high reaches of

the tower or lower something down. Chains that clanked and rattled,

uneasy in the night breeze.

She leaned forward, forcing herself to feel the vertigo twist her

stomach and tighten her throat. Savoring it. Scoot forward a few inches,

no more effort really than standing from a chair, and then the sound of

wind would fill her ears. She waited as long as she could stand and then

drew hack, gasping and nauseated and trembling. But she did not pull her

legs back in. That would have been weakness.

It was an irony that the symbols of Machi's greatness were so little

used. In the winter, there was no heating them-all the traffic of the

city went in the streets, or over the snows, or through the networks of

tunnels. And even in summer, the endless spiraling stairways and the

need to haul up any wine or food or musical instruments made the gardens

and halls nearer the ground more inviting. The towers were symbols of

power, existing to show that they could exist and little enough more. A

boast in stone and iron used for storage and exotic parties to impress

visitors from the other courts of the Khaiem. And still, they made Idaan

think that perhaps she could imagine what it would he to fly. In her way

she loved them, and she loved very few things these days.

It was odd, perhaps that she had two lovers and still felt alone. Adrah

had been with her for longer, it felt, than she had been herself. And so

it had surprised her that she was so ready to betray him in another

man's bed. Perhaps she'd thought that by being a new man's lover, she

would strip off that old skin and become innocent again.

Or perhaps it was only that Cehmai had a sweet face and wanted her. She

was young, she thought, to have given tip flirtation and courtship.

She'd been angry with Adrah for embarrassing Cchmai at the dance. She'd

promised herself never to be owned by a man. And also, killing Biitrah

had left a hunger in her-a need that nothing yet had sated.

She liked Cehmai. She longed for him. She needed him in a way she

couldn't quite fathom, except to say that she hated herself less when

she was with him.

"Idaan!" a voice whispered from the darkness behind her. "Conic away

from there! You'll he seen!"

"Only if you're fool enough to bring a torch," she said, but she pulled

her feet hack in from the abyss and hauled the great bronze-bound oaken

sky doors shut. For a moment, there was nothing-black darker than

closing her eyes-and then the scrape of a lantern's hood and the flame

of a single candle. Crates and boxes threw deep shadows on the stone

walls and carved cabinets. Adrah looked pale, even in the dim light.

Idaan found herself amused and annoyed-pulled between wanting to comfort

him and the desire to point out that it wasn't his family they were

killing. She wondered if he knew yet that she had taken the poet to bed

and whether he would care. And whether she did. He smiled nervously and

glanced around at the shadows.

"He hasn't come," Idaan said.

"He will. Don't worry," Adrah said, and then a moment later: "My father

has drafted a letter. Proposing our union. He's sending it to the Khai

tomorrow."

"Good," Idaan said. "We'll want that in place before everyone finishes

dying."

"Don't."

"If we can't speak of it to each other, Adrah-kya, when will we ever? It

isn't as if I can go to our friends or the priest." Idaan took a pose of

query to some imagined confidant. "Adrah's going to take me as his wife,

but it's important that we do it now, so that when I've finished

slaughtering my brothers, he can use me to press his suit to become the

new Khai without it seeming so clearly that I'm being traded at market.

And don't you love this new robe? It's Westlands silk."

She laughed bitterly. Adrah did not step back, quite, but he did pull away.

"What is it, Idaan-kya?" he said, and Idaan was surprised by the pain in

his voice. It sounded genuine. "Have I done something to make you angry

with me?"

For a moment, she saw herself through his eyes-cutting, ironic, cruel.

It wasn't who she had been with him. Once, before they had made this

bargain with Chaos, she had had the luxury of being soft and warm. She

had always been angry, only not with him. How lost he must feel.

Idaan leaned close and kissed him. For one terrible moment, she meant

it-the softness of his lips against hers stirring something within her

that cried out to hold and be held, to weep and wail and take com fort.

Her flesh also remembered the poet, the strange taste of another man's

skin, the illusion of hope and of safety that she'd felt in her betrayal

of the man who was destined to share her life.

"I'm not angry, sweet. Only tired. I'm very tired."

"This will pass, Idaan-kya. Remember that this part only lasts a while."

"And is what follows it better?"

He didn't answer.

The candle had hardly burned past another mark when the moonfaced

assassin appeared, moving like darkness itself in his back cotton robe.

He put down his lantern and took a pose of welcome before dusting a

crate with his sleeve and sitting. His expression was pleasant as a

fruit seller in a summer market. It only made Idaan like him less.

"So," Oshai said. "You called, I've come. What seems to be the problem?"

She had intended to begin with Maati Vaupathai, but the pretense of

passive stupidity in Oshai's eyes annoyed her. Idaan raised her chin and

her brows, considering him as she would a garden slave. Adrah looked

back and forth between the two. The motion reminded her of a child

watching his parents fighting. When she spoke, she had to try not to spit.

"I would know where our plans stand," she said. "My father's ill, and I

hear more from Adrah and the palace slaves than from you."

"My apologies, great lady," Oshai said without a hint of irony. "It's

only that meetings with you are a risk, and written reports are

insupportable. Our mutual friends ..."

"The Galtic High Council," Idaan said, but Oshai continued as if she had

not spoken.

". . . have placed agents and letters of intent with six houses.

Contracts for iron, silver, steel, copper, and gold. The negotiations

are under way, and I expect we will be able to draw them out for most of

the summer, should we need to. When all three of your brothers die, you

will have been wed to Adrah, and between the powerful position of his

house, his connection with you, and the influence of six of the great

houses whose contracts will suddenly ride on his promotion to Khai, you

should be sleeping in your mother's bed by Candles Night."

"My mother never had a bed of her own. She was only a woman, remember.

Traded to the Khai for convenience, like a gift."

"It's only an expression, great lady. And remember, you'll be sharing

Adrah here with other wives in your turn."

"I won't take others," Adrah said. "It was part of our agreement."

"Of course you won't," Oshai said with a nod and an insincere smile. "My

mistake."

Idaan felt herself flush, but kept her voice level and calm when she spoke.

"And my brothers? Danat and Kaiin?"

"They are being somewhat inconvenient, it's true. They've gone to

ground. Frightened, I'm told, by your ghost brother Utah. We may have to

wait until your father actually dies before they screw up the courage to

stand against each other. But when they do, I will be ready. You know

all this, Idaan-cha. It can't be the only reason you've asked me here?"

The round, pale face seemed to harden without moving. "There had best be

something more pressing than seeing whether I'll declaim when told."

"Maati Vaupathai," Idaan said. "The Dai-kvo's sent him to study in the

library."

"Hardly a secret," Oshai said, but Idaan thought she read a moment's

unease in his eyes.

"And it doesn't concern your owners that this new poet has come for the

same prize they want? What's in those old scrolls that makes this worth

the risk for you, anyway?"

"I don't know, great lady," the assassin said. "I'm trusted with work of

this delicate nature because I don't particularly care about the points

that aren't mine to know."

"And the Galts? Are they worried about this Maati Vaupathai poking

through the library before them?"

"It's ... of interest," Oshai said, grudgingly.

"It was the one thing you insisted on," Idaan said, stepping toward the

man. "When you came to Adrah and his father, you agreed to help us in

return for access to that library. And now your price may be going away.

Will your support go, too? The unasked question hung in the chill air.

If the Galts could not have what they wanted from Adrah and Idaan and

the books of Machi, would the support for this mad, murderous scheme

remain? Idaan felt her heart tripping over faster, half hoping that the

answer might be no.

"It is the business of a poet to concern himself with ancient texts,"

Oshai said. "If a poet were to come to Machi and not avail himself of

its library, that would be odd. 't'his coincidence of timing is of

interest. But it's not yet a cause for alarm."

"He's looking into the death of Biitrah. He's been down to the mines.

He's asking questions."

"About what?" Oshai said. The smile was gone.

She told him all she knew, from the appearance of the poet to his

interest in the court and high families, the low towns and the mines.

She recounted the parties at which he had asked to he introduced, and to

whom. The name he kept mentioning-Itani Noygu. 'T'he way in which his

interest in the ascension of the next Khai Machi seemed to be more than

academic. She ended with the tale she'd heard of his visit to the

Daikani mines and to the wayhouse where her brother had died at Oshai's

hands. When she was finished, neither man spoke. Adrah looked stricken.

Oshai, merely thoughtful. At length, the assassin took a pose of gratitude.

"You were right to call me, Idaan-cha," he said. "I doubt the poet knows

precisely what he's looking for, but that he's looking at all is had

enough."

"What do we do?" Adrah said. The desperation in his voice made Oshai

look up like a hunting dog hearing a bird.

"You do nothing, most high," Oshai said. "Neither you nor the great lady

does anything. I will take care of this."

"You'll kill him," Idaan said.

"If it seems the best course, I may...."

Idaan took a pose appropriate to correcting a servant. Oshai's words faded.

"I was not asking, Oshai-cha. You'll kill him."

The assassin's eyes narrowed for a moment, but then something like

amusement flickered at the corners of his mouth and the glimmer of

candlelight in his eyes grew warmer. He seemed to weigh something in his

mind, and then took a pose of acquiescence. Idaan lowered her hands.

"Will there be anything else, most high?" Oshai asked without taking his

gaze from her.

"No," Adrah said. "'T'hat will be all."

"Wait half a hand after I've gone," Oshai said. "I can explain myself,

and the two of you together borders on the self-evident. All three would

be difficult."

And with that, he vanished. Idaan looked at the sky doors. She was

tempted to open them again, just for a moment. To see the land and sky

laid out before her.

"It's odd, you know," she said. "If I had been born a man, they would

have sent me away to the school. I would have become a poet or taken the

brand. But instead, they kept me here, and I became what they're afraid

of. Kaiin and Danat are hiding from the brother who has broken the

traditions and come back to kill them for the chair. And here I am. I am

Otah Machi. Only they can't see it."

"I love you, Idaan-kya."

She smiled because there was nothing else to do. He had heard the words,

but understood nothing. It would have meant as much to talk to a dog.

She took his hand in hers, laced her fingers with his.

"I love you too, Adrah-kya. And I will be happy once we've done all this

and taken the chair. You'll be the Khai Machi, and I will be your wife.

We'll rule the city together, just as we always planned, and everything

will be right again. It's been half a hand by now. We should go."

They parted in one of the night gardens, he to the east and his family

compound, and she to the south, to her own apartments, and past them and

west to tree-lined path that led to the poet's house. If the shutters

were closed, if no light shone but the night candle, she told herself

she wouldn't go in. But the lanterns were lit brightly, and the shutters

open. She paced quietly through the grounds, peering in through windows,

until she caught the sound of voices. Cehmai's soft and reasonable, and

then another. A man's, loud and full of a rich selfimportance. Baarath,

the librarian. Idaan found a tree with low branches and deep shadows and

sat, waiting with as much patience as she could muster, and silently

willing the man away. The full moon was halfway across the sky before

the two came to the door, silhouetted. Baarath swayed like a drunkard,

but Cehmai, though he laughed as loud and sang as poorly, didn't waver.

She watched as Baarath took a sloppy pose of farewell and stumbled off

along the path. Cehmai watched him go, then looked back into the house,

shaking his head.

Idaan rose and stepped out of the shadows.

She saw Cehmai catch sight of her, and she waited. He might have another

guest-he might wave her away, and she would have to go back through the

night to her own apartments, her own bed. The thought filled her with

black dread until the poet put one hand out to her, and with the other

motioned toward the light within his house.

Stone-Made-Soft brooded over a game of stones, its massive head cupped

in a hand twice the size of her own. The white stones, she noticed, had

lost badly. The andat looked up slowly and, its curiosity satisfied, it

turned back to the ended game. The scent of mulled wine filled the air.

Cehmai closed the door behind her, and then set about fastening the

shutters.

"I didn't expect to see you," the poet said.

"Do you want me to leave?"

'T'here were a hundred things he could have said. Graceful ways to say

yes, or graceless ways to deny it. He only turned to her with the

slightest smile and went back to his task. Idaan sat on a low couch and

steeled herself. She couldn't say why she was driven to do this, only

that the impulse was much like draping her legs out the sky doors, and

that it was what she had chosen to do.

"Daaya Vaunyogi is approaching the Khai tomorrow. He is going to

petition that Adrah and I be married."

Cehmai paused, sighed, turned to her. His expression was melancholy, but

not sorrowful. He was like an old man, she thought, amused by the world

and his own role in it. There was a strength in him, and an acceptance.

"I understand," he said.

"Do You?"

"No.'

"He is of a good house, their bloodlines-"

"And he's well off and likely to oversee his family's house when his

father passes. And he's a good enough man, for what he is. It isn't that

I can't imagine why he would choose to marry you, or you him. But, given

the context, there are other questions."

"I love him," Idaan said. "We have planned to do this for ... we have

been lovers for almost two years."

Cehmai sat beside a brazier, and looked at her with the patience of a

man studying a puzzle. The coals had burned down to a fine white ash.

"And you've come to be sure I never speak of what happened the other

night. To tell me that it can never happen again."

The sense of vertigo returned, her feet held over the abyss.

"No," she said.

"You've come to stay the night?"

"If you'll have me, yes."

The poet looked down, his hands laced together before him. A cricket

sang, and then another. The air seemed thin.

"Idaan-kya, I think it might be better if-"

"Then lend me a couch and a blanket. If you ... let me stay here as a

friend might. We are friends, at least? Only don't make me go back to my

rooms. I don't want to be there. I don't want to be with people and I

can't stand being alone. And I ... I like it here."

She took a pose of supplication. Cehmai rose and for a moment she was

sure he would refuse. She almost hoped he would. Scoot forward, no more

effort than sitting up, and then the sound of wind. But Cehmai took a

pose that accepted her. She swallowed, the tightness in her throat

lessening.

"I'll be hack. The shutters ... it might be awkward if someone were to

happen by and see you here."

"Thank you, Cehmai-kya."

He leaned forward and kissed her mouth, neither passionate nor chaste,

then sighed again and went to the back of the house. She heard the

rattle of wood as he closed the windows against the night. Idaan looked

at her hands, watching them tremble as she might watch a waterfall or a

rare bird. An effect of nature, outside herself. The andat shifted and

turned to look at her. She felt her brows rise, daring the thing to

speak. Its voice was the low rumble of a landslide.

"I have seen generations pass, girl. I've seen young men die of age. I

don't know what you are doing, but I know this. It will end in chaos.

For him, and for you."

Stone-Made-Soft went silent again, stiller than any real man, not even

the pulse of breath in it. She glared into the wide, placid face and

took a pose of challenge.

"It that a threat?" she asked.

The andat shook its head once-left, and then right, and then still as if

it had never moved in all the time since the world was young. When it

spoke again, Idaan was almost startled at the sound.

"It's a blessing," it said.

"WHAT DID HE LOOK LIKE?" MAA'I'I ASKED.

Piyun See, chief assistant to the Master of 'rides, frowned and glanced

out the window. The man sensed that he had done something wrong, even if

he could not say what it had been. It made him reluctant. Maati sipped

tea from a white stone bowl and let the silence stretch.

"A courier. He wore decent robes. He stood half a head taller than you,

and had a good face. Long as a north man's."

"Well, that will help me," Maati said. He couldn't keep his impatience

entirely to himself.

Piyun took a pose of apology formal enough to be utterly insincere.

"He had two eyes and two feet and one nose, Maati-cha. I thought he was

your acquaintance. Shouldn't you know better than I what he looks like?"

"If it is the man."

"He didn't seem pleased to hear you'd been asking after him. He made an

excuse and lit out almost as soon as he heard of you. It isn't as if 1

knew that he wasn't to be told of you. I didn't have orders to hold back

your name."

"Did you have orders to volunteer me to him?" Maati asked.

"No, but ..."

Maati waved the objection away.

"House Siyanti. You're sure of that?"

"Of course I am."

"How do I reach their compound?"

"They don't have one. House Siyanti doesn't trade in the winter cities.

He would be staying at a wayhouse. Or sometimes the houses here will let

couriers take rooms."

"So other than the fact that he came, you can tell me nothing," Maati said.

This time the pose of apology was more sincere. Frustration clamped

Maati's jaw until his teeth hurt, but he forced himself into a pose that

thanked the assistant and ended the interview. Piyun See left the small

meeting room silently, closing the door behind him.

Otah was here, then. He had come back to Machi, using the same name he

had had in Saraykeht. And that meant ... Maati pressed his fingertips to

his eyes. That meant nothing certain. That he was here suggested that

Biitrah's death was his work, but as yet it was only a sug gestion. He

doubted that the Dai-kvo or the Khai Machi would see it that way. His

presence was as much as proof to them, and there was no way to keep it

secret. Piyun See was no doubt spreading the gossip across the palaces

even now-the visiting poet and his mysterious courier. He had to find

Otah himself, and he had to do it now.

He straightened his robes and stalked out to the gardens, and then the

path that would lead him to the heart of the city. He would begin with

the teahouses nearest the forges. It was the sort of place couriers

might go to drink and gossip. There might be someone there who would

know of House Siyanti and its partners. He could discover whether Irani

Noygu had truly been working for Siyanti. That would bring him one step

nearer, at least. And there was nothing more he could think of to do now.

The streets were busy with children playing street games with rope and

sticks, with beggars and slaves and water carts and firekeepers' kilns,

with farmers' carts loaded high with spring produce or lambs and pigs on

their way to the fresh butcher. Voices jabbered and shouted and sang,

the smells of forge smoke and grilling meat and livestock pressed like a

fever. The city seemed busy as an anthill, and Maati's mind churned as

he navigated his way through it all. Otah had come to the winter cities.

Was he killing his brothers? Had he chosen to become the Khai Machi?

And if he had, would Maati have the strength to stop him?

He told himself that he could. He was so focused and among so many

distractions that he almost didn't notice his follower. Only when he

found what looked like a promising alley-hardly more than a shoulderwide

crack between two long, tall buildings-did he escape the crowds long

enough to notice. The sound of the street faded in the dim twilight that

the band of sky above him allowed. A rat, surprised by him, scuttled

through an iron grating and away. The thin alley branched, and Maati

paused, looked down the two new paths, and then glanced back. The path

behind him was blocked. A dark cloak, a raised hood, and shoulders so

broad they touched both walls. Maati hesitated, and the man behind him

didn't move. Maati felt the skin at the back of his neck tighten. He

picked one turning of the alleyway and walked down it briskly until the

dark figure reached the intersection as well and turned after him. Then

Maati ran. The alley spilled out into another street, this less

populous. The smoke of the forges made the air acrid and hazy. Maati

raced toward them. There would be men there-smiths and tradesmen, but

also firekeepers and armsmen.

When he reached the mouth where the street spilled out onto a major

throughway, he looked back. The street behind him was empty. His steps

slowed, and he stopped, scanning the doorways, the rooftops. There was

nothing. His pursuer-if that was what he had been-had vanished. Maati

waited there until he'd caught his breath, then let himself laugh. No

one was coming. No one had followed. It was easy to see how a man could

be eaten by his fears. He turned to the metalworkers' quarter.

The streets widened here, with shops and stalls facing out, filled with

the tools of the metal trades as much as their products. The forges and

smith's houses were marked by the greened copper roofs, the pillars of

smoke, the sounds of yelling voices and hammers striking anvils. The

businesses around them-sellers of hammers and tongs, suppliers of ore

and wax blocks and slaked lime-all did their work loudly and

expansively, waving hands in mock fury and shouting even when there was

no call to. Maati made his way to a teahouse near the center of the

district where sellers and workers mixed. He asked after House Siyanti,

where their couriers might be found, what was known of them. The brown

poet's robes granted him an unearned respect, but also wariness. It was

three hands before he found an answer-the overseer of a consortium of

silversmiths had had word from House Siyanti. The courier had said the

signed contracts could be delivered to House Nan, but only after they'd

been sewn and sealed. Maati gave the man two lengths of silver and his

thanks and had started away before he realized he would also need better

directions. An older man in a red and yellow robe with a face round and

pale as the moon overheard his questions and offered to guide him there.

"You're Maati Vaupathai," the moon-faced man said as they walked. "I've

heard about you."

"Nothing scandalous, I hope," Maati said.

"Speculations," the man said. "The Khaiem run on gossip and wine more

than gold or silver. My name is Oshai. It's a pleasure to meet a poet."

They turned south, leaving the smoke and cacophony behind them. As they

stepped into a smaller, quieter street, Maati looked back, half

expecting to see the looming figure in the dark robes. There was nothing.

"Rumor has it you've come to look at the library," Oshai said.

"That's truth. The Da]-kvo sent me to do research for him."

"Pity you've come at such a delicate time. Succession. It's never an

easy thing."

"It doesn't affect me," Maati said. "Court politics rarely reach the

scrolls on the back shelves."

"I hear the Khai has books that date back to the Empire. Before the war.

"He does. Some of them are older than the copies the Dai-kvo has.

Though, in all, the Dai-kvo's libraries are larger."

"He's wise to look as far afield as he can, though," Oshai said. "You

never know what you might find. Was there something in particular he

expected our Khai to have?"

"It's complex," Maati said. "No offense, it's just ..."

Oshai smiled and waved the words away. There was something odd about his

face-a weariness or an emptiness around his eyes.

"I'm sure there are many things that poets know that I can't

comprehend," the guide said. "Here, there's a faster way down through here."

Oshai moved forward, taking Maati by the elbow and leading him down a

narrow street. The houses around them were poorer than those near the

palaces or even the metalworkers' quarter. Shutters showed the splinters

of many seasons. The doors on the street level and the second-floor snow

doors both tended to have cheap leather hinges rather than worked metal.

Few people were on the street, and few windows open. Oshai seemed

perfectly at ease despite his heightened pace so Maati pushed his

uncertainty away.

"I've never been in the library myself," Oshai said. "I've heard

impressive things of it. The power of all those minds, and all that

time. It isn't something that normal men can easily conceive."

"I suppose not," Maati said, trotting to keep up. "Forgive me, Oshai-

cha, but are we near House Nan?"

"We won't be going much further," his guide said. "Just around this next

turning."

But when they made the turn, Maati found not a trading house's compound,

but a small courtyard covered in flagstone, a dry cistern at its center.

The few windows that opened onto the yard were shuttered or empty. Maati

stepped forward, confused.

"Is this ...... he began, and Oshai punched him hard in the belly. Maati

stepped back, surprised by the attack, and astounded at the man's

strength. Then he saw the blade in the guide's hand, and the blood on

it. Maati tried to hack away, but his feet caught the hem of his robe.

Oshai's face was a grimace of delight and hatred. He seemed to jump

forward, then stumbled and fell.

When his hands-out before him to catch his fall-touched the ground, the

flagstone splashed. Oshai's hands vanished to the wrist. For a moment

that seemed to last for days, Maati and his attacker both stared at the

ground. Oshai began to struggle, pulling with his shoulders to no

effect. Maati could hear the fear in the muttered curses. The pain in

his belly was lessening, and a warmth taking its place. He tried to

gather himself, but the effort was such that he didn't notice the

darkrobed figures until they were almost upon him. 'l'he larger one had

thrown back its hood and the wide, calm face of the andat considered

him. The other form-smaller, and more agitated-knelt and spoke in

Cehmai's voice.

"Maati-kvo! You're hurt."

"Be careful!" Maati said. "He's got a knife."

Cehmai glanced at the assassin struggling in the stone and shook his

head. The poet looked very young, and yet familiar in a way that Maati

hadn't noticed before. Intelligent, sure of himself. Maati was struck by

an irrational envy of the boy, and then noticed the blood on his own

hand. He looked down, and saw the wetness blackening his robes. There

was so much of it.

"Can you walk?" Cehmai said, and Maati realized it wasn't the first time

the question had been asked. He nodded.

"Only help me up," he said.

The younger poet took one arm and the andat the other and gently lifted

him. The warmth in Maati's belly was developing a profound ache in its

center. He pushed it aside, walked two steps, then three, and the world

seemed to narrow. He found himself on the ground again, the poet leaning

over him.

"I'm going for help," Cehmai said. "Don't move. Don't try to move. And

don't die while I'm gone."

Maati tried to raise his hands in a pose of agreement, but the poet was

already gone, pelting down the street, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Maati rolled his head to one side to see the assassin struggling in vain

and allowed himself a smile. A thought rolled through his mind, elusive

and dim, and he shook himself, willing a lucidity he didn't possess. It

was important. Whatever it was bore the weight of terrible significance.

If he could only bring himself to think it. It had something to do with

Otah-kvo and all the thousand times Maati had imagined their meeting.

The andat sat beside him, watching him with the impassive distance of a

statue, and Maati didn't know that he intended to speak to it until he

heard his own words.

"It isn't Otah-kvo," he said. The andat shifted to consider the captive

trapped by stone, then turned back.

"No," it agreed. "Too old."

"No," Maati said, struggling. "I don't mean that. I mean he wouldn't do

this. Not to me. Not without speaking to me. It isn't him."

The andat frowned and shook its massive head.

"I don't understand."

"If I die," Maati said, forcing himself to speak above a whisper, "you

have to tell Cehmai. It isn't Otah-kvo that did this. There's someone else."

The chamber was laid out like a temple or a theater. On the long,

sloping floor, representatives of all the high families sat on low

stools or cushions. Beyond them sat the emissaries of the trading

houses, the people of the city, and past them rank after rank of

servants and slaves. The air was rich with the smells of incense and

living bodies. Idaan looked out over the throng, though she knew proper

form called for her gaze to remain downcast. Across the dais from her,

Adrah knelt, his posture mirroring hers, except that his head was held

high. He was, after all, a man. His robes were deep red and woven gold,

his hair swept back and tied with bands of gold and iron like a child of

the Empire. He had never looked more handsome. Her lover. Her husband.

She considered him as she might a fine piece of metalwork or a

well-rendered drawing. As a likeness of himself.

His father sat beside him on a bench, dressed in jewels and rich cloth.

Daaya Vaunyogi was beaming with pride, but Idaan could see the unease in

the way he held himself. The others would sec only the patriarch of one

high family marrying his son into the blood of the Khaiem-it was reason

enough for excitement. Of all the people there, only Idaan would also

see a traitor against his city, forced to sit before the man whose sons

he conspired to slaughter and act as if his pet assassin was not locked

in a room with armsmen barring the way, his intended victim alive. Idaan

forced herself not to smirk at his weakness.

Her father spoke. His voice was thick and phlegmy, and his hands

trembled so badly that he took no formal poses.

"I have accepted a petition from House Vaunyogi. They propose that the

son of their flesh, Adrah, and the daughter of my blood, Idaan, be joined."

He waited while the appointed whisperers repeated the words, the hall

filled, it seemed, with the sound of a breeze. Idaan let her eyes close

for a long moment, and opened them again when he continued.

"This proposal pleases me," her father said. "And I lay it before the

city. If there is cause that this petition he refused, I would know of

it now.

The whisperers dutifully passed this new statement through the hall as

well. There was a cough from nearby, as if in preparation to speak.

Idaan looked over. There in the first rank of cushions sat Cehmai and

his andat. Both of them were smiling pleasantly, but Cehmai's eyes were

on hers, his hands in a pose of offering. It was the same pose he might

have used to ask if she wanted some of the wine he was drinking or a lap

blanket on a cold night. Here, now, it was a deeper thing. Would you

like me to stop this? Idaan could not reply. No one was looking at

Cehmai, and half the eyes in the chamber were on her. She looked down

instead, as a proper girl would. She saw the movement in the corner of

her eye when the poet lowered his hands.

"Very well," her father said. "Adrah Vaunyogi, come here before me."

Idaan did not look up as Adrah stood and walked with slow, practiced

steps until he stood before the Khai's chair. He knelt again, with his

head bowed, his hands in a pose of gratitude and submission. The Khai,

despite the grayness in his skin and the hollows in his cheeks, held

himself perfectly, and when he did move, the weakness did not undo the

grace of a lifetime's study. He put a hand on the boy's head.

"Most high, I place myself before you as a man before his elder," Adrah

said, his voice carrying the ritual phrases through the hall. Even with

his hack turned, the whisperers had little need to speak. "I place

myself before you and ask your permission. I would take Idaan, your

blood issue, to be my wife. If it does not please you, please only say

so, and accept my apology."

"I am not displeased," her father said.

"Will you grant me this, most high?"

Idaan waited to hear her father accept, to hear the ritual complete

itself. The silence stretched, profound and horrible. Idaan felt her

heart begin to race, fear rising up in her blood. Something had

happened; Oshai had broken. Idaan looked up, prepared to see armsmen

descending upon them. But instead, she saw her father bent close to

Adrah-so close their foreheads almost touched. There were tears on the

sunken cheeks. The formal reserve and dignity was gone. The Khai was

gone. All that remained was a desperately ill man in robes too gaudy for

a sick house.

"Will you make her happy? I would have one of my children be happy."

Adrah's mouth opened and shut like a fish pulled from the river. Idaan

closed her eyes, but she could not stop her ears.

"I ... most high, I will do ... Yes. I will."

Idaan felt her own tears forcing their way into her eyes like traitors.

She hit her lip until she tasted blood.

"Let it be known," her father said, "that I have authorized this match.

Let the blood of the Khai Maehi enter again into House Vaunyogi. And let

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

celebration. The ceremony shall be held in thirty-four days, on the

opening of summer."

The whisperers began, but the hush of their voices was quickly drowned

out by cheering and applause. Idaan raised her head and smiled as if the

smears on her cheeks were from joy. Every man and woman in the chamber

had risen. She turned to them and took a pose of thanks, and then to

Adrah and his father, and then, finally, to her own. He was still

weeping-a show of weakness that the gossips and hackbiters of the court

would be chewing over for days. But his smile was so genuine, so

hopeful, that Idaan could do nothing but love him and taste ashes.

"Thank you, most high," she said. He bowed his head, as if honoring her.

The Khai Nlachi left the dais first, attended by servants who lifted him

into his litter and others who bore him away. "I 'hen Idaan herself

retreated. The others would escape according to the status of their

families and their standing within them. It would be a hand and a half

before the chamber was completely empty. Idaan strode along white marble

corridors to a retiring room, sent away her servants, locked the door

and sobbed until her heart was empty again. Then she washed her face in

cool water from her basin, arrayed her kohl and blush, whitener and lip

rouge before a mirror and carefully made a mask of her skin.

There would be talk, of course. Even without her father's unseemly

display of humanity-and she hated them all for the laughter and

amusement that would occasion-there would be enough to pick apart. The

strength of Adrah's voice would be commented on. The way in which he

carried himself. Even his unease when the ritual slipped from its form

might speak well of him in people's memory. It was a small thing, of

course. In the minds of the witnesses, it had been clear that she would

be the daughter of a Khai only very briefly and merely sister to the

Khai was a lower status. House Vaunyogi was buying something whose value

would soon drop. It must be a love match, they would say, and pretend to

be touched. She wondered if it wouldn't be bettercleaner-to simply burn

the city and everyone in it, herself included. Let a hot iron clean and

seal it like searing a wound. It was a passing fantasy, but it gave her

comfort.

A knock came, and she arranged her robes before unlocking the door.

Adrah stood, his house servants behind him. He had not changed out of

his ritual robes.

"Idaan-kya," he said, "I was hoping you might come have a bowl of tea

with my father."

"I have gifts to present to your honored father," Idaan said, gesturing

to a cube of cloth and bright paper the size of a boar. It was already

lashed to a carrying pole. "It is too much for me. Might I have the aid

of your servants?"

Two servants had already moved forward to lift the burden.

Adrah took a pose of command, and she answered with one of acquiescence,

following him as he turned and left. They walked side by side through

the gardens, not touching. Idaan could feel the gazes of the people they

passed, and kept her expression demure. By the time they reached the

palaces of the Vaunyogi, her cheeks ached with it. Idaan and Adrah

walked with their entourage through a hall of worked rosewood and

mother-of-pearl, and to the summer garden where Daaya Vaunyogi sat

beneath a stunted maple tree and sipped tea from a stone bowl. His face

was weathered but kindly. Seeing him in this place was like stepping

into a woodcut from the Old Empire-the honored sage in contemplation.

The gift package was placed on the table before him as if it were a meal.

Adrah's father put down his bowl and took a pose that dismissed the

servants.

"The garden is closed," he said. "We have much to discuss, my children

and I."

As soon as the doors were shut and the three were alone, his face fell.

He sank back to his seat like a man struck by fever. Adrah began to

pace. Idaan ignored them both and poured herself tea. It was overbrewed

and bitter.

"You haven't heard from them, then, Daaya-cha?"

"The Galts?" the man said. "The messengers I send come back empty

handed. When I went to speak to their ambassador, they turned me away.

Things have gone wrong. The risk is too great. They won't hack us now."

"Did they say that?" Idaan asked.

Daaya took a pose that asked clarification. Idaan leaned forward,

holding back the snarl she felt twisting at her lip.

"Did they say they wouldn't back us, or is it only that you fear they

won't?"

"Oshai," Daaya said. "He knows everything. He's been my intermediary

from the beginning. If he tells what he knows-"

"If he does, he'll be killed," Idaan said. "That he injured a poet is

bad enough, but he murdered a son of the Khaiem without being a brother

to him. He knows what would happen. His best hope is that someone

intercedes for him. If he speaks what he knows, he dies badly."

"We have to free him," Adrah said. "We ha-(- to get him out. We have to

show the Galts that we can protect them."

"We will," Idaan said. She drank down her tea. "The three of us. And I

know how we'll do it."

Adrah and his father looked at her as if she'd just spat out a serpent.

She took a pose of query.

"Shall we wait for the Galts to take action instead? They've already

begun to distance themselves. Shall we take some members of your house

into our confidence? Hire some armsmen to do it for us? Assume that our

secrets will be safer the more people know?"

"But ...... Adrah said.

"If we falter, we fail," Idaan said. "I know the way to the cages. He's

kept underground now; if they move him to the towers, it gets harder. I

asked that we meet in a place with a private exit. This garden. There is

a way out of it?"

Daaya took an acknowledging pose, but his face was pale as bread dough.

"I thought there would be others you wished to consult," he said.

"There's nothing to consult over," Idaan said and pulled open the gifts

she had brought to her new marriage. Three dark cloaks with deep hoods,

three blades in dark leather sheaths, two unstrung hunter's bows with

dark-shafted arrows, two torches, a pot of smoke pitch and a bag to

carry it. And beneath it, a wall stand of silver with the sigils of

order and chaos worked in marble and bloodstone. Idaan passed the blades

and cloaks to the men.

"The servants will only know of the wall stand. "These others we can

give to Oshai to dispose of once we have him," Idaan said. "The smoke

pitch we can use to frighten the armsmen at the cages. The bows and

blades are for those that don't flee."

"Idaan-kya," Adrah said, "this is madness, we can't. .

She slapped him before she knew she meant to. He pressed a palm to his

cheek, and his eyes glistened. But there was anger in him too. That was

good.

"We do the thing now, while there are servants to swear it was not us.

We do it quickly, and we live. We falter and wail like old women, and we

die. Pick one."

Daaya Vaunyogi broke the silence by taking a cloak and pulling it on.

His son looked to him, then to her, then, trembling began to do the same.

"You should have been born a man," her soon-to-be father said. There was

disgust in his voice.

The tunnels beneath the palaces were little traveled in spring. The long

winter months trapped in the warrens that laced the earth below Machi

made even the slaves yearn for daylight. Idaan knew them all. Long

winter months stealing unchaperoned up these corridors to play on the

river ice and snow-shrouded city streets had taught her how to move

through them unseen. They passed the alcove where she and Janat Saya had

kissed once, when they were both too young to think it more than

something that they should wish to do. She led them through the thin

servant's passage she'd learned of when she was stealing fresh

applecakes from the kitchens. Memories made the shadows seem like old

friends from better times, when her mischief had been innocent.

They made their way from tunnel to tunnel, passing through wide chambers

unnoticed and passages so narrow they had to stoop and go singly. The

weight of stone above them made the journey seem like traveling through

a mine.

They knew they were nearing the occupied parts of the tunnels as much by

the smell of shit from the cages and acrid smoke as by the torchlight

that danced at the corridor's mouth. Thick timber beams framed the hall.

Idaan paused. This was only a side gallery-little used, rarely

trafficked. But it would do, she thought.

"What now?" Adrah asked. "We light the pitch? Simulate a fire?"

Idaan took the pot from its hag and weighed it in her hands.

"We simulate nothing, Adrah-kya," she said. She tossed the pot at the

base of a thick timber support and tossed her lit torch onto the

blackness. It sputtered for a moment, then caught. Idaan unslung the bow

from her shoulder and draped a fold of the cloak over it. "Be ready."

She waited as the flames caught. If she waited too long, they might not

be able to pass the fire. If she was too quick, the armsmen might be

able to put out the blaze. A deep calm seemed to descend upon her, and

she felt herself smile. Now would be a fine moment, she thought, and

screamed, raising the alarm. Adrah and Daaya followed her as she

stumbled through the darkness and into the cages. In the time it took

for her to take two breaths of the thickening air, they found themselves

in the place she'd hoped: a wide gallery in torchlight, the air already

becoming dense with smoke, and iron cages set into the stone where

prisoners waited on the justice of the Khai. Two armsmen in leather and

bronze armor scuttled to the three of them, their eyes round with fear.

"There's a fire in the gallery!" Daaya shrilled. "Get water! Get the watch!"

The prisoners were coming to the front of the cages now. Their cries of

fear added to the confusion. Idaan pretended to cough as she considered

the problem. There were two more armsmen at the far end of the cages,

but they were coming closer. Of the first two who had approached, one

had raced off toward the fire, the other down a well-lit tunnel, she

presumed towards aid. And then midway down the row of cages on the left,

she caught a glimpse of the Galts' creature. There was real fear in his

eyes.

Adrah panicked as the second pair came close. With a shriek, he drew his

blade, hewing at the armsmen like a child playing at war. Idaan cursed,

but Daaya was moving faster, drawing his bow and sinking a dark shaft

into the man's belly as Idaan shot at his chest and missed. But Adrah

was lucky-a wild stroke caught the armsman's chin and seemed to cleave

his jaw apart. Idaan raced to the cages, to Oshai. The moon-faced

assassin registered a moment's surprise when he saw her face within the

hood, and then Oshai closed his eyes and spat.

Adrah and Daaya rushed to her side.

"Do not speak," Oshai said. "Nothing. Every man here would sell you for

his freedom, and there are people who would buy. Do you understand?"

Idaan nodded and pointed toward the thick lock that barred the door.

Oshai shook his head.

"The Khai's Master of Blades keeps the keys," Oshai said. "The cages

can't be opened without him. If you meant me to leave with you, you

didn't think this through very well."

Adrah whispered a curse, but Oshai's eyes were on Idaan. He smiled

thinly, his eyes dead as a fish's. He saw it when she understood, and he

nodded, stepped back from the bars, and opened his arms like a man

overwhelmed by the beauty of a sunrise. Idaan's first arrow took him in

the throat. There were two others after that, but she thought they

likely didn't matter. The first shouts of the watch echoed. The smoke

was thickening. Idaan walked away, down the route she had meant to take

when the prisoners were free. She'd meant to free them all, adding to

the chaos. She'd been a fool.

"What have you done?" Daaya Vaunyogi demanded once they were safely away

in the labyrinth. "What have you done?"

Idaan didn't bother answering.

Back in the garden, they sank the blades and the cloaks in a fountain to

lie submerged until Adrah could sneak back in under cover of night and

get rid of them. Even with the dark hoods gone, they all reeked of

smoke. She hadn't foreseen that either. Neither of the men met her eyes.

And yet, Oshai was beyond telling stories to the utkhaiem. So perhaps

things hadn't ended so badly.

She gave her farewells to Daaya Vaunyogi. Adrah walked with her hack

through the evening-dimmed streets to her rooms. That the city seemed

unchanged struck her as odd. She couldn't say what she had expected-what

the day's events should have done to the stones, the air-but that it

should all be the same seemed wrong. She paused by a beggar, listening

to his song, and dropped a length of silver into the lacquered box at

his feet.

At the entrance to her rooms, she sent her servants away. She did not

wish to be attended. They would assume she smelled of sex, and best that

she let them. Adrah peered at her, earnest as a puppy, she thought. She

could see the distress in his eyes.

"You had to," he said, and she wondered if he meant to comfort her or

convince himself. She took a pose of agreement. He stepped forward, his

arms curving to embrace her.

"Don't touch me," she said, and he stepped hack, paused, lowered his

arms. Idaan saw something die behind his eyes, and felt something wither

in her own breast. So this is what we are, she thought.

"Things were good once," he said, as if willing her to say and they will

be again. The most she could give him was a nod. They had been good

once. She had wanted and admired and loved him once. And even now, a

part of her might love him. She wasn't sure.

The pain in his expression was unbearable. Idaan leaned forward, kissed

him briefly on the lips, and went inside to wash the day off her skin.

She heard his footsteps as he walked away.

Her body felt wrung out and empty. There were dried apples and sugared

almonds waiting for her, but the thought of food was foreign. Gifts had

arrived throughout the day-celebrations of her being sold off. She

ignored them. It was only after she had bathed, washing her hair three

times before it smelled more of flowers than smoke, that she found the note.

It rested on her bed, a square of paper folded in quarters. She sat

naked beside it, reached out a hand, hesitated, and then plucked it

open. It was brief, written in an unsteady hand.

Daughter, it said. I had hoped that you might be able to spend some part

of this happy day with me. Instead, I will leave this. Know that you

have my blessings and such love as a weary old man can give. You have

always delighted me, and I hope for your happiness in this match.

When her tears and sobbing had exhausted her, Idaan carefully gathered

the scraps of the note together and placed them together under her

pillow. Then she bowed and prayed to all the gods and with all her heart

that her father should die, and die quickly. That he should die without

discovering what she was.

MAATI WAS LOST FOR A TIME IN PAIN, THEN DISCOMFORT, AND THEN PAIN again.

He didn't suffer dreams so much as a pressing sense of urgency without

goal or form, though for a time he had the powerful impression that he

was on a boat, rocked by waves. His mind fell apart and reformed itself

at the will of his body.

He came to himself in the night, aware that he had been half awake for

some time; that there had been conversations in which he had

participated, though he couldn't say with whom or on what matters. The

room was not his own, but there was no mistaking that it belonged to the

Khai's palace. No fire burned in the grate, but the stone walls were

warm with stored sunlight. The windows were shuttered with shaped stone,

the only light coming from the night candle that had burned almost to

its quarter mark. Maati pulled back the thin blankets and considered the

puckered gray flesh of his wound and the dark silk that laced it closed.

He pressed his belly gently with his fingertips until he thought he knew

how delicate he had become. When he stood, tottering to the night pot,

he found he had underestimated, but that the pain was not so

excruciating that he could not empty his bladder. After, he pulled

himself back into bed, exhausted. He intended only to close his eyes for

a moment and gather his strength, but when he opened them, it was morning.

He had nearly resolved to walk from his bed to the small writing table

near the window when a slave entered and announced that the poet Cehmai

and the andat Stone-Made-Soft would see him if he wished. Maati nodded

and sat up carefully.

The poet arrived with a wide plate of rice and river fish in a sauce

that smelled of plums and pepper. The andat carried a jug of water so

cold it made the stone sweat. Maati's stomach came to life with a growl

at the sight.

"You're looking better, Maati-kvo." the young poet said, putting the

plate on the bed. The andat pulled two chairs close to the bed and sat

in one, its face calm and empty.

"I looked worse than this?" Maati asked. "I wouldn't have thought that

possible. How long has it been?"

"Four days. The injury brought on a fever. But when they poured onion

soup down you, the wound didn't smell of it, so they decided you might

live after all."

Maati lifted a spoon of fish and rice to his mouth. It tasted divine.

"I think I have you to thank for that," Maati said. "My recollection

isn't all it could be, but ..."

"I was following you," Cehmai said, taking a pose of contrition. "I was

curious about your investigations."

"Yes. I suppose I should have been more subtle."

"The assassin was killed yesterday."

Maati took another bite of fish.

"Executed?"

"Disposed of," the andat said and smiled.

Cehmai told the story. The fire in the tunnels, the deaths of the

guards. The other prisoners said that there had been three men in black

cloaks, that they had rushed in, killed the assassin, and vanished. Two

others had choked to death on the smoke before the watchmen put the fire

out.

"The story among the utkhaiem is that you discovered Utah Machi. The

Master of Tides' assistant said that you'd been angry with him for being

indiscreet about your questions concerning a courier from Udun. Then the

attack on you, and the fire. They say the Khai Machi sent for you to

hunt his missing son, Utah."

"Part true," Maati said. "I was sent to look for Otah. I knew him once,

when we were younger. But I haven't found him, and the knife man was ...

something else. It wasn't Otah."

"You said that," the andat rumbled. "When we found you, you said it was

someone else."

"Otah-kvo wouldn't have done it. Not that way. He might have met me

himself, but sending someone else to do it? No. He wasn't behind that,"

Maati said, and then the consequence of that fell into place. "And so I

think he must not have been the one who killed Biitrah."

Cehmai and his andat exchanged a glance and the young poet drew a bowl

of water for Maati. The water was as good as the food, but Maati could

see the unease in the way Cehmai looked at him. If he had ached less or

been farther from exhaustion, he might have been subtle.

"What is it?" Maati asked.

Cehmai drew himself up, then sighed.

"You call him Otah-kvo."

"He was my teacher. At the school, he was in the black robes when I was

new arrived. He ... helped me."

"And you saw him again. When you were older."

"Did I?" Maati asked.

Cehmai took a pose that asked forgiveness. "The Dai-kvo would hardly

have trusted a memory that old. You were both children at the school. We

were all children there. You knew him when you were both men, yes?"

"Yes," Maati said. "He was in Saraykeht when ... when Heshai-kvo died."

"And you call him Otah-kvo," Cehmai said. "He was a friend of yours,

Maati-kvo. Someone you admired. He's never stopped being your teacher."

"Perhaps. But he's stopped being my friend. That was my doing, but it's

done."

"I'm sorry, Maati-kvo, but are you certain Otah-kvo is innocent because

he's innocent, or only because you're certain? It would be hard to

accept that an old friend might wish you ill ..."

Maati smiled and sipped the water.

"Otah Machi may well wish me dead. I would understand it if he did. And

he's in the city, or was four days ago. But he didn't send the assassin."

"You think he isn't hoping for the Khai's chair?"

"I don't know. But I suppose that's something worth finding out. Along

with who it was that killed his brother and started this whole thing

rolling."

He took another mouthful of rice and fish, but his mind was elsewhere.

"Will you let me help you?"

Maati looked up, half surprised. The young poet's face was serious, his

hands in a pose of formal supplication. It was as if they were back in

the school and Cehmai was a boy asking a boon of the teachers. The andat

had its hands folded in its lap, but it seemed mildly amused. Before

Maati could think of a reply, Cehmai went on.

"You aren't well yet, Maati-kvo. You're the center of all the court

gossip now, and anything you do will be examined from eight different

views before you've finished doing it. I know the city. I know the

court. I can ask questions without arousing suspicion. The Dai-kvo

didn't choose to take me into his confidence, but now that I know what's

happening-"

"It's too much of a risk," Maati said. "The Dal-kvo sent me because I

know Otah-kvo, but he also sent me because my loss would mean nothing.

You hold the andat-"

"It's fine with me," Stone-Made-Soft said. "Really, don't let me stop you.

"If I ask questions without you, I run the same risks, and without the

benefits of shared information," Cehmai said. "And expecting me not to

wonder would be unrealistic."

"The Khai Machi would expel me from his city if he thought I was

endangering his poet," Maati said. "And then I wouldn't be of use to

anyone.

Cehmai's dark eyes were both deadly serious and also, Maati thought,

amused. "This wouldn't be the first thing I've kept from him," the young

poet said. "Please, Maati-kvo. I want to help."

Maati closed his eyes. Having someone to talk with, even if it was only

a way to explore what he thought himself, wouldn't be so had a thing.

The Dai-kvo hadn't expressly forbidden that Cehmai know, and even if he

had, the secret investigation had already sent Otah-kvo to flight, so

any further subterfuge seemed pointless. And the fact was, he likely

couldn't find the answers alone.

"You have saved my life once already."

"I thought it would be unfair to point that out," Cehmai said.

Maati laughed, then stopped when the pain in his belly bloomed. He lay

back, blowing air until he could think again. The pillows felt better

than they should have. He'd done so little, and he was already tired. He

glanced mistrustfully at the andat, then took a pose of acceptance.

"Come back tonight, when I've rested," Maati said. "We'll plan our

strategy. I have to get my strength hack, but there isn't much time."

"May I ask one other thing, Maati-kvo?"

Maati nodded, but his belly seemed to have grown more sensitive for the

moment and he tried not to move more than that. It seemed laughing

wasn't a wise thing for him just now.

"Who are Liat and Nayiit?"

"My lover. Our son," Maati said. "I called out for them, did I? When I

had the fever?"

Cehmai nodded.

"I do that often," Maati said. "Only not usually aloud."

There were four great roads that connected the cities of the Khaiem, one

named for each of the cardinal directions. The North Road that linked

Cetani, Machi, and Amnat-Ian was not the worst, in part because there

was no traffic in the winter, when the snows let men make a road

wherever desire took them. Also the stones were damaged more by the

cycle of thaw and frost that troubled the north only in spring and

autumn. In high summer, it rarely froze, and for a third of the year it

did not thaw. The West Road-far from the sea and not so far south as to

keep the winters warm-required the most repair.

"They'll have crews of indentured slaves and laborers out in shifts,"

the old man in the cart beside Otah said, raising a finger as if his

oratory was on par with the High Emperor's, back when there had been an

empire. "They start at one end, reset the stones until they reach the

other, and begin again. It never ends."

Otah glanced across the cart at the young woman nursing her babe and

rolled his eyes. She smiled and shrugged so slightly that their orator

didn't notice the movement. The cart lurched down into and up from

another wide hole where the stones had shattered and not yet been replaced.

"I have walked them all," the old man said, "though they've worn me more

than I've worn them. Oh yes, much more than I've worn them."

He cackled, as he always seemed to when he made this observation. The

little caravan-four carts hauled by old horses-was still six days from

Cetani. Otah wondered whether his own legs were rested enough that he

could start walking again.

He had bought an old laborer's robe of blue-gray wool from a rag shop,

chopped his hair to change its shape, and let his thin beard start to

grow in. Once his whiskers had been long enough to braid, but the east

islanders he'd lived with had laughed at him and pretended to mistake

him for a woman. After Cetani, it would take another twenty days to

reach the docks outside Amnat-tan. And then, if he could find a fishing

boat that would take him on, he would be among those men again, singing

songs in a tongue he hadn't tried out in years, explaining again, either

with the truth or outrageous stories, why his marriage mark was only

half done.

He would die there-on the islands or on the sea-under whatever new name

he chose for himself. Itani Noygu was gone. He had died in Machi.

Another life was behind him, and the prospect of beginning again, alone

in a foreign land, tired him more than the walking.

"Now, southern wood's too soft to really build with. The winters are too

warm to really harden them. Up here there's trees that would blunt a

dozen axes before they fell," the old man said.

"You know everything, don't you grandfather?" Otah said. If his

annoyance was in his voice, the old man noticed nothing, because he

cackled again.

"It's because I've been everywhere and done everything," the old man

said. "I even helped hunt down the Khai Amnat-Tan's older brother when

they had their last succession. "There were a dozen of us, and it was

the dead of winter. Your piss would freeze before it touched ground. Oh,

eh ..."

The old man took a pose of apology to the young woman and her babe, and

Otah swung himself out of the cart. It wasn't a story he cared to hear.

The road wound through a valley, high pine forest on either side, the

air sharp and fragrant with the resin. It was beautiful, and he pictured

it thick with snow, the image coming so clear that he wondered whether

he might once have seen it that way. When the clatter of hooves came

from the west, he forced himself again to relax his shoulders and look

as curious and excited as the others. Twice before, couriers on fast

horses had passed the 'van, laden with news, Otah knew, of the search

for him.

It had taken an effort of will not to run as fast as he could after he

had been discovered, but the search was for a false courier either

plotting murder or fleeing like a rabbit. No one would pay attention to

a plodding laborer off to stay with his sister's family in a low town

outside Cetani. And yet, as the horses approached, tension grew in his

breast. He prepared himself for the shock if one of the riders had a

familiar face.

There were three this time-utkhaiem to judge by their robes and the

quality of their mounts-and none of them men he knew. They didn't slow

for the 'van, but the armsmen of the 'van, the drivers, the dozen

hangers-on like himself all shouted at them for news. One of them turned

in his saddle and yelled something, but Otah couldn't make it out and

the rider didn't repeat it. Ten days on the road. Six more to Cetani.

The only challenge was not to be where they were looking for him.

They reached a wayhouse with the sun still three and a half hands above

the treetops. The building was of northern design: stone walls thick as

the span of a man's arm and stables and goat pen on the ground floor

where the heat of the animals would rise and help warm the place in the

winter. While the merchants and armsmen argued over whether to stop now

or go farther and sleep in the open, Otah ran his eyes over the windows

and walked around to the back, looking for all the signs Kiyan had

taught him to know whether the keeper was working with robbers or

keeping an unsafe kitchen. The house met all of her best marks. It

seemed safe.

By the time he'd returned to the carts, his companions had decided to

stay. After Otah had helped stable the horses, they shifted the carts

into a locked courtyard. The caravan's leader haggled with the keeper

about the rooms and came to an agreement that Otah privately thought

gave the keep the better half. Otah made his way up two flights of

stairs to the room he was to share with five armsmen, two drivers, and

the old man. He curled himself up in a corner on the floor. It was too

small a room, and one of the drivers snored badly. A little sleep when

things were quiet would only make the next day easier.

He woke in darkness to the sound of music-a drum throbbed and a flute

sighed. A man's voice and a woman's moved in rough harmony. He wiped his

eyes with the sleeve of his robe and went down to the main room. The

members of his 'van were all there and half a dozen other men besides.

The air smelled of hot wine and roast lamb, pine trees and smoke. Otah

sat at a rough, worn table beside one of the drivers and watched.

The singer was the keep himself, a pot-bellied man with a nose that had

been broken and badly set. He drew the deep heat from a skin and

earthenware drum as he sang. His wife was shapely as a potato with an

ugly face and a missing eye tooth, but their voices were well suited and

their affection for each other forgave them much. Otah found himself

tapping his fingertips against the table to match the drumbeats.

His mind went back to Kiyan, and the nights of music and stories and

gossip he had spent in her wayhouse, far away to the south. He wondered

what she was doing tonight, what music filled the warm air and competed

with the murmur of the river.

When the last note had faded to silence, the crowd applauded, yelped,

and howled their appreciation. Otah made his way to the singer-he was

shorter than Otah had thought-and took his hand. The keeper beamed and

blushed when Otah told him how good the music had been.

"We've had a few years practice, and there's only so much to do when the

days are short," the keep said. "The winter choirs in Machi make us

sound like street beggars."

Otah smiled, regret pulling at him that he would never hear those songs,

and a moment later he heard his name being spoken.

"Itani Noygu's what he was calling himself," one of the merchants said.

"Played a courier for House Siyanti."

"I think I met him," a man said whom Otah had never met. "I knew there

was something odd about the man."

"And the poet ... the one that had his belly opened for him? He's

picking the other Siyanti men apart like they were baked fish. The

upstart has to wish that job had been done right the first time."

"Sounds as if I've missed something," Otah said, putting on his most

charming smile. "What's this about a poet's belly?"

The merchant frowned at the interruption until Otah motioned to the

keep's wife and bought bowls of hot wine for the table. After that, the

gossip flowed more freely.

Maati Vaupathai had been attacked, and the common wisdom held that Otah

had arranged it. The most likely version was that the upstart had been

passing as a courier, but others said that he had made his way into the

palaces dressed as a servant or a meat seller. There was no question,

though, that the Khai had sent out runners to all the winter cities

asking for the couriers and overseers of House Siyanti to attend him at

court. Amiit Foss, the man who'd been the upstart's overseer in tldun,

was being summoned in particular. It wasn't clear yet whether Siyanti

had knowingly backed the Otah Machi, but if they had, it would mean the

end of their expansion into the north. Even if they hadn't, the house

would suffer.

"And they're sure he was the one who had the poet killed?" Otah asked,

using all the skill the gentleman's trade had taught him to hide his

deepening despair and disgust.

"It seems they were in Saraykeht together, this poet and the upstart.

That was just before Saraykeht fell."

The implications of that hung over the room. Perhaps Otah Machi had

somehow been involved with the death of Heshai, the poet of Saraykeht.

Who knew what depravity the sixth son of the Khai Machi might sink to?

It was a ghost story for them; a tale to pass a night on the road; a

sport to follow.

Otah remembered the old, frog-mouthed poet, remembered his kindness and

his weakness and his strength. He remembered the regret and the respect

and the horrible complicity he'd felt in killing him, all those years

ago. It had been so complicated, then. Now, they said it so simply and

spoke as if they understood.

"There's rumor of a woman, too. They say he had a lover in Udun."

"If he was a courier, he's likely got a woman in half the cities of the

Khaiem. The gods know I would."

"No," the merchant said, shaking his head. He was more than half drunk.

"No, they were very clear. All the Siyanti men say he had a lover in

Udun and never took another. Loved her like the world, they said. But

she left him for another man. I say it's that turned him evil. Love

turns on you like ... like milk."

"Gentlemen," the keep's wife said, her voice powerful enough to cut

through any conversation. "It's late, and I'm not sleeping until these

rooms are cleaned, so get you all to bed. I'll have bread and honey for

you at sunrise."

The guests slurped down the last of the wine, ate the last mouthfuls of

dried cherries and fresh cheese, and made their various ways toward

their various beds. Otah walked down the inner stairs to the stables and

the goat yard, then out through a side door and into the darkness. His

body felt like he'd just run a race, or else like he was about to.

Kiyan. Kiyan and the wayhouse her father had run. Old Mani. He had set

the dogs on them, and that he hadn't intended to would count for nothing

if his brothers found her. Whatever happened, whatever they did, it

would be his fault.

He found a tall tree and sat with his back against it, looking out at

the stars nearest the horizon. The air had the bite of cold in it.

Winter never left this place. It made a little room for summer, but it

never left. He thought of writing her a letter, of warning her. It would

never reach her in time. It was ten days walk back to Machi, six days

forward to Cetani, and his brothers' forces would already be on the road

south. He could send to Amiit Foss, beg his old overseer to take Kiyan

in, to protect her. But there too, word would reach him too late.

Despair settled into his belly, too deep for tears. He was destroying

the woman he loved most in the world simply by being who he was, by

doing what he'd done. He thought of the boy he had been, marching away

from the school across the western snows. He remembered his fear and the

warmth of his rage at the poets and his parents and all in the world

that treated boys so unfairly. What a pompous little ass he'd been,

young and certain and alone. He should have taken the Dal-kvo's offer

and become a poet. He might have tried to bind an andat, and maybe

failed and paid the price, dying in the attempt. And then Kiyan would

never have met him. She would be safe.

There's still a price, he thought, as clear as a voice speaking in his

head. You could still pay it.

Machi was ten days' walk, perhaps as little as four and a half days'

ride. If he could turn all eyes back to Mach], Kiyan might have at least

the chance to escape his idiocy. And what would she matter, if no one

need search for him. He could take a horse from the stables now. After

all, if he was an upstart and a poisoner and a man turned evil by love,

it hardly mattered being a horse thief as well. He closed his eyes, an

angry bark of a laugh forcing its way from his throat.

Everything you have won, you've won by leaving, he thought, remembering

a woman whom he had known almost well enough to join his life with

though he had never loved her, nor she him. Well, Maj, perhaps this time

I'll lose.

THE NIGHT CANDLE WAS PAST ITS MIDDLE MARK; TFIK AIR WAS FILLEI) WITH the

songs of crickets. Somewhere in the course of things, the pale mist of

netting had been pulled from the bed, and the room looked exposed

without it. Cehmai could feel Stone-Made-Soft in the back of his mind,

but the effort of being truly aware of the andat was too much; his body

was thick and heavy and content. Focus and rigor would have their place

another time.

Idaan traced her fingertips across his chest, raising gooseflesh. He

shivered, took her hand and folded it in his own. She sighed and lay

against him. Her hair smelled of roses.

"Why do they call you poets?" she asked.

"It's an old Empire term," Clehmai said. "It's from the binding."

"The andat are poems?" she said. She had the darkest eyes. Like an

animal's. He looked at her mouth. The lips were too full to be

fashionable. With the paint worn off, he could see how she narrowed

them. He raised his head and kissed them again, gently this time. His

own mouth felt bruised from their coupling. And then his head grew too

heavy, and he let it rest again.

"They're ... like that. Binding one is like describing something

perfectly. Understanding it, and expanding it ... I'm not saying this

well. Have you ever translated a letter? Taken something in the Khaiate

tongues and tried to say the same thing in Westland or an east island

tongue?"

"No," she said. "I had to take something from the Empire and rewrite it

for a tutor once."

Cchmai closed his eyes. He could feel sleep pulling at him, but he

fought against it a hit. He wasn't ready to let the moment pass.

"That's near enough. You had to make choices when you did that. Tiff',

could mean take or it could mean give or it could mean exchangeit's

yours to choose, depending on how it's used in the original document.

And so a letter or a poem doesn't have a set translation. You could have

any number of ways that you say the same thing. Binding the andat means

describing them-what the thought of them is-so well that you can

translate it perfectly into a form that includes will and volition. Like

translating a Galtic contract so that all the nuances of the trade are

preserved perfectly."

"But there's any number of ways to do that," she said.

"There are very few ways to do it perfectly. And if a binding goes wrong

... Existing isn't normal for them. If you leave an imprecision or an

inaccuracy, they escape through it, and the poet pays a price for that.

Usually it comes as some particularly gruesome death. And knowing what

an andat is can be subtle. Stone-Made-Soft. What do you mean by stone?

Iron comes from stone, so is it stone? Sand is made of tiny stones. Is

it stone? Bones are like stone. But are they like enough to be called

the same name? All those nuances have to be balanced or the binding

fails. Happily, the Empire produced some formal grammars that were very

precise."

"And you describe this thing...."

"And then you hold that in your mind until you die. Only it's the kind

of thought that can think back, so it's wearing sometimes."

"Do you resent it?" Idaan asked, and something in her voice had changed.

Cehmai opened his eyes. Idaan was looking past him. Her expression was

unfathomable.

"I don't know what you mean," he said.

"You have to carry this thing all your life. Do you ever wish that you

hadn't been called to do it?"

"No," he said. "Not really. It's work, but it's work that I like. And I

get to meet the most interesting women."

Her gaze cooled, flickered over him, and then away.

"Lucky to be you," she said as she sat up. He watched her as she pulled

her robes from the puddle of cloth on the floor. Cehmai sat up. "I have

meetings in the morning. I'll need to be in my own rooms to be ready

anyway. I might as well go now."

"I might say fewer things that angered you if you talked to me," Cehmai

said, gently.

Idaan's head snapped around to him like a hunting cat's, but then her

expression softened to chagrin, and she took an apologetic pose.

"I'm overtired," she said. "'T'here are things that I'm carrying, and I

don't do it as gracefully as you. I don't mean to take them out on you."

"Why do you do this, Idaan-kya? Why do you come here? I don't think it's

that you love me."

"Do you want me to stop?"

"No," Cehmai said. "I don't. But if you choose to, that will be fine as

well."

"'That's flattering," she said, sarcasm thick in her voice.

"Are you doing this to be flattered?"

He was awake again now. He could see something in her expression pain,

anger, something else. She didn't answer him now, only knelt by the bed

and felt beneath it for her hoots. He put his hand on her arm and drew

her up. He could sense that she was close to speaking, that the words

were already there, just below the surface.

"I don't mind only being your bed mate," he said. "I've known from the

start that Adrah is the man you plan to be with, and that I couldn't be

that for you even if you wanted it. I assume that's part of why you've

chosen me. But I am fond of you, and I would like to be your friend."

"You'd be my friend?" she said. "That's nice to hear. You've bedded me

and now you'll condescend to be a friend?"

"I think it's more accurate to say you bedded me," Cehmai said. "And it

seems to me that people do what we've done quite often without caring

about the other person. Or even while wishing them ill. I'll grant that

we haven't followed the usual order-I understand people usually know

each other first and then fall into bed afterwards-hut in a way that

means you should take me more seriously."

She pulled hack and took a pose of query.

"You know I'm not just saying it to get your robes open," he said. "When

I say I want to be someone you can speak with, it's truth. I've nothing

to gain by it but the thing itself."

She sighed and sat on the bed. The light of the single candle painted

her in shades of orange.

"Do you love me, Cehmai-kya?" she asked.

Cehmai took a deep breath and then slowly let it out. He had reached the

gate. Her thoughts, her fears. Everything that had driven this girl into

his bed was waiting to be loosed. All he would have to do was tell one,

simple, banal lie. A lie thousands of men had told for less reason. He

was badly tempted.

"Idaan-kya," he said, "I don't know you."

To his surprise, she smiled. She pulled on her hoots, not bothering to

lace the bindings, leaned over and kissed him again. Her hand caressed

his cheeks.

"Lucky to be you," she said softly.

Neither spoke as they walked down the corridor to the main rooms. The

shutters were closed against the night, and the air felt stuffy and

thick. He walked with her to the door, then through it, and sat on the

steps, watching her vanish among the trees. The crickets still sang. The

moon still hung overhead, bathing the night in blue. He heard the high

squeak of bats as they skimmed the ponds and pools, the flutter of an

owl's wings.

"You should be sleeping," the low, gravel voice said from behind him.

"Yes, I imagine so."

"First light, there's a meeting with the stone potters."

"Yes, there is."

Stone-Made-Soft stepped forward and lowered itself to sit on the step

beside him. The familiar bulk of its body rose and fell in a sigh that

could only be a comment.

"She's up to something," Cehmai said.

"She might only find herself drawn to two different men," the andat

said. "It happens. And you're the one she couldn't build a life with.

The other boy ..."

"No," Cehmai said, speaking slowly, letting the thoughts form as he gave

them voice. "She isn't drawn to me. Not one."

"She could be flattered that you want her. I've heard that's endearing."

"She's drawn to you."

The andat shifted to look at him. Its wide mouth was smiling.

"That would be a first," it said. "I'd never thought of taking a lover.

I don't think I'd know what to do with her."

"Not like that," Cehmai said. "She wants me because of you. Because I'm

a poet. If I weren't, she wouldn't be here."

"Does that offend you?"

A gnat landed on the back of Cehmai's hand. The tiny wings tickled, but

he looked at it carefully. A small gray insect unaware of its danger.

With a puff of breath, he New it into the darkness. The andat waited

silently for an answer.

"It should," Cehmai said at last.

"Perhaps you can work on that."

"Being offended?"

"If you think you should be."

The storm in the back of him mind shifted. The constant thought that was

this thing at his side moved, kicking like a babe in the womb or a

prisoner testing the walls of its cell. Cehmai chuckled.

"You aren't trying to help," he said.

"No," the andat agreed. "Not particularly."

"Did the others understand their lovers? The poets before me?"

"How can I say? They loved women, and were loved by them. They used

women and were used by them. You may have found a way to put me on a

leash, but you're only men."

THE IRONY WAS THAT, HIS WOUND NOT FULLY HEALED, MAATI SPENT MORE time in

the library than he had when he had been playing at scholarship. Only

now, instead of spending his mornings there, he found it a calm place to

retire when the day's work had exhausted him; when the hunt had worn him

thin. It had been fifteen days now since Itani Noygu had walked away

from the palaces and vanished. Fourteen days since the assassin had put

a dagger in Maati's own guts. Thirteen days since the fire in the cages.

He knew now as much as he was likely to know of Itani Noygu, the courier

for House Siyanti, and almost nothing of Otah-kvo. Irani had worked in

the gentleman's trade for nearly eight years. He had lived in the

eastern islands; he was a charming man, decent at his craft if not

expert. He'd had lovers in "Ian-Sadar and tltani, but had broken things

off with both after he started keeping company with a wayhouse keeper in

Udun. His fellows were frankly disbelieving that this could be the rogue

Otah Machi, night-gaunt that haunted the dreams of Machi. But where he

probed and demanded, where he dug and pried, pleaded and coddled and

threatened, there was no sign of Otah-kvo. Where there should have been

secrecy, there was nothing. Where there should have been meetings with

high men in his house, or another house, or somebody, there was nothing.

There should have been conspiracy against his father, his brothers, the

city of his birth. There was nothing.

All of which went to confirm the conclusion that Maati had reached,

bleeding on the paving stones. Otah was not scheming for his father's

chair, had not killed Biitrah, had not hired the assassin to attack him.

And yet Otah was here, or had been. Maati had written to the Daikvo,

outlining what he knew and guessed and only wondered, but he had

received no word hack as yet and might not for several weeks. By which

time, he suspected, the old Khai would be dead. That thought alone tired

him, and it was the library that he turned to for distraction.

He sat back now on one of the thick chairs, slowly unfurling a scroll

with his left hand and furling it again with his right. In the space

between, ancient words stirred. The pale ink formed the letters of the

Empire, and the scroll purported to be an essay by Jaiet Khai-a man

named the Servant of Memory from the great years when the word Khai had

still meant servant. The grammar was formal and antiquated, the tongue

was nothing spoken now. It was unlikely than anyone but a poet would be

able to make sense of it.

'T'here are two types of impossibility in the andat, the man long since

dust had written. The first of these are those thoughts which cannot be

understood. Time and Mind arc examples of this type; mysteries so

profound that even the wise cannot do more than guess at their deepest

structure. These bindings may someday become possible with greater

understanding of the world and our place within it. For this reason they

are of no interest to me. The second type is made up of those thoughts

by their nature impossible to bind, and no greater knowledge shall ever

permit them. Examples of this are Imprecision and Freedom-FromBondage.

Holding Time or Mind would be like holding a mountain in your hands.

Holding Imprecision would be like holding the backs of your hands in

your palms. One of these images may inspire awe, it is true, but the

other is interesting.

"Is there anything I can do for you, Maati-cha?" the librarian asked again.

`.. Thank You, Baarath-cha, but no. I'm quite well."

The librarian took a step forward all the same. His hands seemed to

twitch towards the books and scrolls that Maati had gathered to look

over. The man's smile was fixed, his eyes glassy. In his worst moments,

Maati had considered pretending to catch one of the ancient scrolls on

fire, if only to see whether Baarath's knees would buckle.

"Because, if there was anything ..."

"Nlaati-cha?" The familiar voice of the young poet rang from the front

of the library. Maati turned to see Cehmai stride into the chamber with

a casual pose of welcome to Baarath. He dropped into a chair across from

Maati's own. The librarian was trapped for a moment between the careful

formality he had with Maati and the easy companionship he appeared to

enjoy with Cehmai. He hesitated for a moment, then, frowning, retreated.

"I'm sorry about him," Cehmai said. "He's an ass sometimes, but he is

good at heart."

"If you say so. And what brings you? I thought there was another

celebration of the Khai's daughter making a match."

"A messenger's come from the Dai-kvo," Cehmai said, lowering his voice

so that Baarath, no doubt just behind the corner and listening, might

not make out the words. "He says it's important."

Maati sat up, his belly twingeing a bit. His messages couldn't have

reached the Dai-kvo's village and returned so soon. This had to be

something that had been sent before word of his injury had gone out,

which meant the Dai-kvo had found something, or wished something done,

or ... He noticed Cehmai's expression and paused.

"Is the seal not right?"

"There is no seal," Cehmai said. "There is no letter. The messenger says

he was instructed to only speak the message to you, in private. It was

too important, he said, to be written."

"That seems unlikely," Maati said.

"Doesn't it?"

"Where is he now?"

"They brought him to the poet's house when they heard who had sent him.

I've had him put in a courtyard in the Fourth Palace. A walled one, with

armsmen to keep him there. If this is a fresh assassin ..

"Then he'll answer more questions than the last one can," Maati said.

""Take me there."

As they left, Maati saw Baarath swoop down on the hooks and scrolls like

a mother reunited with her babe. Maati knew that they would all he

hidden in obscure drawers and shelves by the time he came hack. Some, he

would likely never see again.

The sun was moving toward the mountain peaks in the west, early evening

descending on the valley. They walked together down the white gravel

path that led to the Fourth Palace, looking, Maati was sure, like

nothing so much as a teacher and his student in their matching brown

poet's robes. Except that Cehmai was the man who held the andat, and

Maati was only a scholar. They didn't speak, but Maati felt a knot of

excitement and apprehension tightening in him.

At the palace's great hall, a servant met them with a pose of formal

welcome that couldn't hide the brightness in her eyes. At a gesture, she

led them down a wide corridor and then up a flight of stairs to a

gallery that looked down into the courtyard. Maati forced himself to

breathe deeply as he stepped to the edge and looked down, Cehmai at his

side.

The space was modest, but lush. Thin vines rose along one wall and part

of another. Two small, sculpted maple trees stood, one at either end of

a long, low stone bench. It looked like a painting-the perfectly

balanced garden, with the laborer in his ill-cut robes the only thing

out of place. A breeze stirred the branches of the trees with a sound

equal parts flowing water and dry pages turning. Maati stepped hack. His

throat was tight, but his head felt perfectly clear. So this was how it

would happen. Very well.

Cehmai was frowning down warily at Otah-kvo. Maati put his hand on the

young man's shoulder.

"I have to speak with him," Maati said. "Alone."

"You don't think he's a threat?"

"It doesn't matter. I still need to speak with him."

"Maati-kvo, please take one of the armsmen. Even if you keep him at the

far end of the yard, you can ..."

Maati took a pose that refused this, and saw something shift in the

young man's eyes. Respect, Maati thought. He thinks I'm being brave. How

odd that I was that young once.

"Take me there," Maati said.

OTAH SAT IN THE GARDEN, HIS BACK AND NECK TIGHT FROM RIDING AND from

fear, and remembered being young in the summer cities. In one of the low

towns outside Saraykeht, there had been a rock at the edge of a cliff

that jutted out over the water so that, when the tide was just right, a

boy of thirteen summers might step out to its edge and peer past his

toes at the ocean below him and feel like a bird. There had been a hand

of them-the homeless young scraping by on pity and small laborwho had

dared each other to dive from that cliff. The first time he had made the

leap himself, he had been sure the moment his feet left the rough, hot

stone that he would die. That pause, divorced from earth and water,

willing himself hack up, trying to force himself to fly and take hack

that one irrevocable moment, had felt very much like sitting quiet and

alone in this garden. The trees shifted like slow dancers, the flowers

trembled, the stone glowed where the sun struck it and faded to gray

where it did not. He rubbed his fingers against the gritty bench to

remind himself where he was, and to keep the panic in his breast from

possessing him.

He heard the door slide open with a whisper, and then shut again. He

rose, forcing his body to move deliberately and took a pose of greeting

even before he looked up. Maati Vaupathai. 'l'ime had thickened him, and

there was a sorrow in the lines of his face that hadn't been there even

in the weary days when he had stood between his master Heshaikvo and the

death that had eventually come. Otah wondered whether that change had

sprung from Heshai's murder, and whether Maati had ever guessed that

Otah had been the one who drew the cord across the old poet's throat.

Maati took a pose of welcome appropriate for a student to a teacher.

"It wasn't me," Otah said. "My brother. You. I had nothing to do with

any of it."

"I had guessed that." Maati said. He did not come nearer.

"Are you going to call the armsmen? There must be half a dozen out

there. Your student could have been more subtle in calling them."

"'There's more than that, and he isn't my student. I don't have any

students. I don't have anything." A strange smile twitched at the corner

of his mouth. "I have been something of a disappointment to the Daikvo.

Why are you here?"

"Because I need help," Otah said, "and I hoped we might not be enemies.

Maati seemed to weigh the words. He walked to the bench, sat, and leaned

forward on clasped hands. Otah sat beside him, and they were silent. A

sparrow landed on the ground before them, cocked its head, and fluttered

madly away again.

"I came back because it was controlling me," Otah said. "This place.

These people. I've spent a lifetime leaving them, and they keep coming

back and destroying everything I build. I wanted to see it. I wanted to

look at the city and my brothers and my father."

He looked at his hands.

"I don't know what I wanted," Otah said.

"Yes," Maati said, and then, awkwardly, "It was foolish, though. And

there will be consequences."

"There have been already."

"There'll be more."

Again, the silence loomed. There was too much to say, and no order for

it. Otah frowned hard, opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again.

"I have a son," Maati said. "Liat and I have a son. His name's Nayiit.

He's probably just old enough now that he's started to notice that girls

aren't always repulsive. I haven't seen them in years."

"I didn't know," Otah said.

"How would you? The Dal-kvo said that I was a fool to keep a family. I

am a poet, and my duty is to the world. And when I wouldn't renounce

them, I fell from favor. I was given duties that might as well have been

done by an educated slave. And you know, there was an odd kind of pride

about it for a while. I was given clothing, shelter, food for myself.

Only for myself. I thought of leaving. Of folding my robes on the bed

and running away as you did. I thought of you, the way you had chosen

your own shape for your life instead of the shapes that were offered

you. I thought I was doing the same. Gods, Otah-kvo, I wish you had been

here. All these years, I wish I had been able to talk to you. To someone.

"I'm sorry...."

Maati raised a hand to stop him.

"My son," Maati said, then his voice thickened, and he coughed and began

again. "Liat and I parted ways. My low status among the poets didn't

have the air of romance for her that I saw in it. And ... there were

other things. Raising my son called for money and time and I had little

to spare of either. My son is thirteen summers. Thirteen. She was

carrying him before we left Saraykeht."

Otah felt the words as if he'd been struck an unexpected blow-a

sensation of shock without source or location, and then the flood. Maati

glanced over at him and read his thoughts from his face, and he nodded.

"I know," Maati said. "She told me about bedding you that one time after

you came back, before you left again. Before Heshai-kvo died and

Seedless vanished. I suppose she was afraid that if I discovered it

someday and she hadn't said anything it would make things worse. She

told me the truth. And she swore that my son was mine. And I believe her."

"Do you?"

"Of course not. I mean, some days I did. When he was young and I could

hold him in one arm, I was sure that he was mine. And then some nights I

would wonder. And even in those times when I was sure that he was yours,

I still loved him. That was the worst of it. The nights I lay awake in a

village where women and children aren't allowed, in a tiny cell that

stank of the disapproval of everyone I had ever hoped to please. I knew

that I loved him, and that he wasn't mine. No, don't. Let me finish. I

couldn't be a father to him. And if I hadn't fathered him either, what

was there left but watching from a distance while this little creature

grew up and away from me without even knowing my heart was tucked in his

sleeve."

Maati wiped at his eyes with the back of one hand.

"Liat said she was tired of my always mourning, that the boy deserved

some joy; that she did too. So after that I didn't have them, and I

didn't have the respect of the people I saw and worked beside. I was

eaten by guilt over losing them, and having taken her from you. I

thought that she would have been happy with you. That you would have

been happy with her. If only I hadn't broken faith with you, the world

might have been right after all. And you might have stayed.

"And that has been my life until the day they called on me to hunt you.

"I see," Otah said.

"I have missed your company so badly, Otah-kya, and I have never hated

anyone more. I have been waiting for years to say that. So. Now I have,

what was it you wanted from me?"

Otah caught his breath.

"I wanted your help," he said. "There's a woman. She was my lover once.

When I told her ... when I told her about my family, my past, she turned

me out. She was afraid that knowing me would put her and the people she

was responsible for in danger."

"She's wise, then," Maati said.

"I hoped you would help me protect her," Otah said. His heart was a lump

of cold lead. "Perhaps that was optimistic."

Maati laughed. The sound was hollow.

"And how would I do that?" Maati asked. "Kill your brothers for you?

Tell the Khai that the Dai-kvo had decreed that she was not to be

harmed? I don't have that power. I don't have any power at all. This was

my chance at redemption. They called upon me to hunt you because I knew

your face, and I failed at that until you walked into the palaces and

asked to speak with me."

"Go to my father with me. I refused the brand, but I won't now. I'll

renounce my claim to the chair in front of anyone he wants, only don't

let him kill me before I do it."

Maati looked across at him. The sparrow returned for a moment to perch

between them.

"It won't work," he said. "Renunciation isn't a simple thing, and once

you've stepped outside of form, stepping back in ..."

"But ..."

"They won't believe you. And even if they did, they'd still fear you

enough to see you dead."

Otah took a deep breath, and then slowly let it out, letting his head

sink into his hands. The air itself seemed to have grown heavier,

thicker. It had been a mad hope, and even in its failure, at least Kiyan

would be safe. It was past time, perhaps, that people stopped paying

prices for knowing him.

He could feel himself shaking. When he sat, his hands were perfectly

still, though he could still feel the trembling in them.

"So what are you going to do?" Otah asked.

"In a moment, I'm going to call in the armsmen that are waiting outside

that door," Maati said, his voice deceptively calm. He was trembling as

well. "I am going to bring you before the Khai, who will at some point

decide either that you are a murderer who has killed his son Biitrah and

put you to the sword, or else a legitimate child of Machi who should be

set loose for one of your older brothers to kill. I will speak on your

behalf, and any evidence I can find that suggests Biitrah's murder

wasn't your work, I will present."

"Well, thank you for that, at least."

"Don't," Maati said. "I'm doing it because it's true. If I thought you'd

arranged it, I'd have said that."

"Loyalty to the truth isn't something to throw out either."

Maati took a pose that accepted the gratitude, and then dropped his

hands to his sides.

"There's something you should know," Otah said. "It might ... it seems

to be your business. When I was in the islands, after Saraykeht, there

was a woman. Not Maj. Another woman. I shared a bed with her for two,

almost three years."

"Otah-kvo, I admire your conquests, but . .

"She wanted a child. From me. But it never took. Almost three years, and

she bled with the moon the whole time. I heard that after I left, she

took up with a fisherman from it tribe to the north and had a baby girl."

"I see," Maati said, and there was something in his voice. A brightness.

"Thank you, Otah-kvo."

"I missed you as well. I wish we had had more time. Or other circumstances."

"As do I. But it isn't ours to choose. Shall we do this thing?"

"I don't suppose I could shave first?" Otah asked, touching his chin.

"I don't see how," Maati said, rising. "But perhaps we can get you some

better robes."

Otah didn't mean to laugh; it simply came out of him. And then Maati was

laughing as well, and the birds startled around them, lifting up into

the sky. Otah rose and took a pose of respect appropriate to the closing

of a meeting. Maati responded in kind, and they walked together to the

door. Maati slid it open, and Otah looked to see whether there was a gap

in the men, a chance to dodge them and sprint out to the streets. He

might as well have looked for a stone cloud. The armsmen seemed to have

doubled in number, and two already had hare blades at the ready. The

young poet-the one Maati said wasn't his student-was there among them,

his expression serious and concerned. Maati spoke as if the bulky men

and their weapons weren't there.

"Cehmai-cha," he said. "Good that you're here. I would like to introduce

you to my old friend, Otah, the sixth son of the Khai Machi. Otahkvo,

this is Cchmai Tyan and that small mountain in the back is the andat

Stone-Made-Soft which he controls. Cehmai assumed you were an assassin

come to finish me off."

"I'm not," Otah said with a levity that seemed at odds with his

situation, but which felt perfectly natural. "But I understand the

misconception. It's the heard. I'm usually better shaved."

Cehmai opened his mouth, closed it, and then took a formal pose of

welcome. Maati turned to the armsmen.

"Chain him," he said.

EVEN AT THE HEIGHT OF MORNING, THE WIVES' QUARTERS OF THE HIGH palace

were filled with the small somber activity of a street market starting

to close at twilight. In the course of his life, the Khai Machi had

taken eleven women as wives. Some had become friends, lovers,

companions. Others had been little more than permanent guests in his

house, sent as a means of assuring favor as one might send a good

hunting dog or a talented slave. Idaan had heard that there were several

of them with whom he had never shared a bed. It had been Biitrah's wife,

Hiami, who'd told her that, trying to explain to a young girl that the

Khaiem had a different relationship to their women than other men had,

that it was traditional. It hadn't worked. Even the words the older

woman had used-your father chooser not to-had proven her point that this

was a comfort house with high ceilings, grand halls, and only a single

client.

But now that was changing, not in character, but in the particulars. The

succession would have the same effect on the eight wives who remained,

whoever took the seat. It would be time for them to leavemake the

journey back to whatever city or family had sent them forth in the first

place. The oldest of them, a sharp-tongued woman named Carai, would be

returning to a high family in Yalakeht where the man who would choose

her disposition had been a delighted toddler grinning and filling his

pants the last time she'd seen him. Another woman-one of the recent ones

hardly older than Idaan herself-had taken a lover in the court. She was

being sent hack to Chaburi-"[an, likely to be turned around and shipped

off to another of the Khaicm or traded between the houses of the

utkhaiem as a token of political alliance. Many of the wives had known

each other for decades and would now scatter and lose the friends and

companions they had known best. And on and on, every one of them a life

shaped by a man's will, constrained by tradition.

Idaan walked through the wide, bright corridors, listened to these women

preparing to depart when the inevitable news came, anticipating the

grief in a way that was as hard as the grief itself. Perhaps harder. She

accepted their congratulations on her marriage. She would be able to

remain in the city, and should her man die before her, her family would

be there to support her. She, at least, would never he uprooted. Hiami

had never understood why Idaan had objected to this way of living. Idaan

had never understood why these women hadn't set the palaces on fire.

Her own rooms were set in the back; small apartments with rich

tapestries of white and gold on the walls. They might almost have been

mistaken for the home of some merchant leader-the overseer of a great

trading house, or a trade master who spoke with the voice of a city's

craftsmen. If only she had been born one of those. As she entered, one

of her servants met her with an expression that suggested news. Idaan

took a pose of query.

"Adrah Vaunyogi is waiting to see you, Idaan-cha," the servant girl

said. "It was approaching midday, so I've put him in the dining hall.

There is food waiting. I hope I haven't ..."

"No," Idaan said, "you did well. Please see that we're left alone."

He sat at the long, wooden table, and he did not look up when she came

in. Idaan was willing to ignore him as well as to be ignored, so she

gathered a bowl of food from the platters-early grapes from the south,

sticky with their own blood; hard, crumbling cheese with a ripe scent

that was both appetizing and not; twice-baked flatbread that cracked

sharply when she broke off a piece-and retired to a couch. She forced

herself to forget that he was here, to look forward at the bare fire

grate. Anger buoyed her up, and she clung to it.

She heard it when he stood, heard his footsteps approaching. It was a

little victory, but it pleased her. As he sat cross-legged on the floor

before her, she raised an eyebrow and sketched a pose of welcome before

choosing another grape.

"I came last night," he said. "I was looking for you."

"I wasn't here," she said.

The pause was meant to injure her. Look how sad youu've made me, Idaan.

It was a child's tactic, and that it partially worked infuriated her.

"I've had trouble sleeping," she said. "I walk. Otherwise, I'd spend the

whole night staring at netting and watching the candle burn down. No

call for that."

Adrah sighed and nodded his head.

"I've been troubled too," he said. "My father can't reach the Galts.

With Oshai ... with what happened to him, he's afraid they may withdraw

their support."

"Your father is an old woman frightened there's a snake in the night

bucket," Idaan said, breaking a corner of her bread. "They may lie low

now, but once it's clear that you're in position to become Khai, they'll

do what they promised. They've nothing to gain by not."

"Once I'm Khai, they'll still own me," Adrah said. "They'll know how I

came there. They'll be able to hold it over me. If they tell what they

know, the gods only know what would happen."

Idaan took a bite of grape and cheese both-the sweet and the salt

mingling pleasantly. When she spoke, she spoke around it.

"They won't. They won't dare, Adrah. Give the worst: we're exposed by

the Galts. We're deposed and killed horribly in the streets. Fine. Lift

your gaze up from your own corpse for a moment and tell me what happens

next?"

"There's a struggle. Some other family takes the chair."

"Yes. And what will the new Khai do?"

"He'll slaughter my family," Adrah said, his voice hollow and ghostly.

Idaan leaned forward and slapped him.

"He'll have Stone-Made-Soft level a few Galtic mountain ranges and sink

some islands. Do you think there's a Khai in any city that would sit

still at the word of the Galtic Council arranging the death of one of

their own? The Galts won't own you because your exposure would mean the

destruction of their nation and the wholesale slaughter of their people.

So worry a little less. You're supposed to he overwhelmed with the

delight of marrying me."

"Shouldn't you be delighted too, then?"

"I'm busy mourning my father," she said dryly. "Do we have any wine?"

"How is he? Your father?"

"I don't know," Idaan said. "I try not to see him these days. He makes

me ... feel weak. I can't afford that just now."

"I heard he's failing."

"Men can fail for a long time," she said, and stood. She left the bowl

on the floor and walked back to her bedroom, holding her hands out

before her, sticky with juice. Adrah followed along behind her and lay

on her bed. She poured water into her stone basin and watched him as she

washed her hands. He was a boy, lost in the world. Perhaps now was as

good a time as any. She took a deep breath.

"I've been thinking, Adrah-kya," she said. "About when you become Khai."

He turned his head to look at her, but did not rise or speak.

"It's going to he important, especially at the first, to gather allies.

Founding a line is a delicate thing. I know we agreed that it would

always be only the two of us, but perhaps we were wrong in that. If you

take other wives, you'll have more the appearance of tradition and the

support of the families who hind themselves to us."

"My father said the same," he said.

Oh did he? Idaan thought, but she held her face still and calm. She

dried her hands on the basin cloth and came to sit on the bed beside

him. To her surprise, he was weeping; small tears corning from the outer

corners of his eyes, thin tracks shining on his skin. Without willing

it, her hand went to his cheek, caressing him. He shifted to look at her.

"I love you, Idaan. I love you more than anything in the world. You are

the only person I've ever felt this way about."

His lips trembled and she pressed a finger against them to quiet him.

These weren't things she wanted to hear, but he would not be stopped.

"Let's end this," he said. "Let's just be together, here. I'll find

another way to move ahead in the court, and your brother ... you'll

still be his blood, and we'll still be well kept. Can't we ... can't we,

please?"

"All this because you don't want to take another woman?" she said

softly, teasing him. "I find that hard to believe."

He took her hand in his. He had soft hands. She remembered thinking that

the first time they'd fallen into her bed together. Strong, soft, wide

hands. She felt tears forming in her own eyes.

"My father said that I should take other wives," he said. "My mother

said that, knowing you, you'd only agree to it if you could take lovers

of your own too. And then you weren't here last night, and I waited

until it was almost dawn. And you ... you want to ..."

"You think I've taken another man?" she asked.

His lips pressed thin and bloodless, and he nodded. His hand squeezed

hers as if she might save his life, if only he held onto her. A hundred

things came to her mind all at once. Yes, of course I have. How dare you

accuse me? Cehmai is the only clean thing left in my world, and you

cannot have him. She smiled as if Adrah were a boy being silly, as if he

were wrong.

"That would be the stupidest thing I could possibly do just now," she

said, neither lying nor speaking the truth of it. She leaned forward to

kiss him, but before their mouths touched, a voice wild with excitement

called out from the atrium.

"Idaan-cha! Idaan-cha! Come quickly!"

Idaan leapt up as if she'd been caught doing something she ought not,

then gathered herself, straightened her robes. The mirror showed that

the paint on her mouth and eyes was smudged from eating and weeping, but

there wasn't time to reapply it. She pushed hack a stray lock of hair

and stormed out.

The servant girl took a pose of apology as Idaan approached her. She

wore the colors of her father's personal retinue, and Idaan's heart sank

to her belly. He had died. It had happened. But the girl was smiling,

her eyes bright.

"What's happened?" Idaan demanded.

"Everything," the girl said. "You're summoned to the court. The Khai is

calling everyone."

"Why? What's happened?"

"I'm not to say, Idaan-cha," the girl said.

Idaan felt the rage-blood in her face as if she were standing near a

fire. She didn't think, didn't plan. Her body seemed to move of its own

accord as she slid forward and clapped her hand on the servant girl's

throat and pressed her to the wall. There was shock in the girl's

expression, and Idaan sneered at it. Adrah fluttered like a bird in the

corner of her vision.

"Say," Idaan said. "Because I asked you twice, tell me what's happened.

And do it now."

"The upstart," the girl said. ""They've caught him."

Idaan stepped back, dropping her hand. The girl's eyes were wide. The

air of excitement and pleasure were gone. Adrah put a hand on Idaan's

shoulder, and she pushed it away.

"He was here," the girl said. "In the palaces. The visiting poet caught

him, and they're bringing him before the Khai."

Idaan licked her lips. Otah Machi was here. He had been here for the

gods only knew how long. She looked at Adrah, but his expression spoke

of an uncertainty and surprise as deep as her own. And a fear that

wasn't entirely about their conspiracy.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Choya," the girl said.

Idaan took a pose of abject apology. It was more than a member of the

utkhaiem would have normally presented to a servant, but Idaan felt her

guilt welling up like blood from a cut.

"I am very sorry, Choya-cha. I was wrong to-"

"But that isn't all," the servant girl said. "A courier came this

morning from 'Ian-Sadar. He'd been riding for three weeks. Kaiin Machi

is dead. Your brother Danat killed him, and he's coming hack. The

courier guessed he might be a week behind him. I)anat Machi's going to

he the new Khai Machi. And Idaan-cha, he'll be back in the city in time

for your wedding!"

On one end, the chain ended at a cube of polished granite the color of

soot that stood as high as a man's waist. On the other, it linked to a

rough iron collar around Otah's neck. Sitting with his back to the

stone-the chain was not so long that he could stand-Otah remembered

seeing a brown bear tied to a pole in the main square of a low town

outside'lan-Sadar. Dogs had been set upon it three at a time, and with

each new wave, the men had wagered on which animal would survive.

Armsmen stood around him with blades drawn and leather armor, stationed

widely enough apart to allow anyone who wished it a good view of the

captive. Beyond them, the representatives of the utkhaiem in fine robes

and ornate jewelry crowded the floor and two tiers of the balconies that

rose up to the base of the domed ceiling far above him. The dais before

him was empty. Otah wondered what would happen if he should need to

empty his bladder. It seemed unlikely that they would let him piss on

the fine parquet floor, but neither could he imagine being led away

decorously. He tried to picture what they saw, this mob of nobility,

when they looked at him. He didn't try to charm them or play on their

sympathies. He was the upstart, and there wasn't a man or woman in the

hall who wasn't delighted to see him debased and humiliated.

The first of the servants appeared, filing out from a hidden door and

spacing themselves around the chair. Otah picked out the brown poet's

robe, but it was Cchmai with the bulk of his andat moving behind him.

Maati wasn't with him; Cehmai was speaking with a woman in the robes of

the Khaiem-Otah's sister, she would be. He wondered what her name was.

The last of the servants and counselors took their places, and the crowd

fell silent. The Khai Machi walked out, as graceful as a dying man could

be. His robes were lush and full, and served to do little more than show

how wasted his frame had become. Otah could see the rouge on his sunken

cheeks, trying to give the appearance of vigor long since gone.

Whisperers fanned out from the dais and into the crowd. The Khai took a

pose of welcome appropriate to the opening of a ritual judgment. Utah

rose to his knees.

"I am told that you are my son, Utah Machi, whom I gave over to the

poets' school."

The whisperers echoed it through the hall. It was his moment to speak

now, and he found his heart was so full of humiliation and fear and

anger that he had nothing to say. He raised his hands and took a pose of

greeting-a casual one that would have been appropriate for a peasant son

to his father. "There was a murmur among the utkhaiem.

"I am further told that you were once offered the poet's robes, and you

refused that honor."

Otah tried to rise, but the most the chain allowed was a low stoop. He

cleared his throat and spoke, pushing the words out clear enough to be

heard in the farthest gallery.

"That is true. I was a child, most high. And I was angry."

"And I hear that you have come to my city and killed my eldest child.

Biitrah Machi is dead by your hand."

"That is not true, father," Utah said. "I won't say that no man has ever

died by my hand, but I didn't kill I3iitrah. I have no wish or intention

to become the Khai Machi."

"Then why have you come here?" the Khai shouted, rising to his feet. His

face was twisted in rage, his fists trembled. In all his travels, Otah

had never seen the Khai of any city look more like a man. Otah felt

something like pity through his humiliation and rage, and it let him

speak more softly when he spoke again.

"I heard that my father was dying."

It seemed that the murmur of the crowds would never end. It rolled like

waves against the seashore. Otah knelt again; the awkward stooping hurt

his neck and hack, and there was no point trying to maintain dignity

here. They waited, he and his father, staring at each other across the

space. Otah tried to feel some bond, some kinship that would bridge this

gap, but there was nothing. The Khai Machi was his father by an accident

of birth, and nothing more.

He saw the old man's eyes flicker, as if unsure of himself. He couldn't

have always been this way-the Khaiem were inhumanly studied in ritual

and grace. It was the mark of their calling. Otah wondered what his

father had been when he was young and strong. He wondered what he would

have been like as a man among his children.

The Khai raised a hand, and the crowd's susurrus tapered down to

silence. Otah did not move.

"You have stepped outside tradition," he said. "Whether you took a hand

against my son is a question that has already gathered an array of

opinion. It is something I must think on.

"I have had other news this day. Danat Machi has won the right of

succession. He is returning to the city even now. I will consult with

him on your fate. Until then, you shall be confined in the highest room

in the great tower. I do not care to have your accomplices taking your

death in their own hands this time. Danat and I-the Khai Machi and the

Khai yet to come-shall decide together what kind of beast you are.

Otah took a pose of supplication. That he was on his knees only made the

gesture clearer. He was dead, whatever happened. He could see that now.

If there had been a chance of mercy-and likely there hadn't-having

father and son converse would remove it. But in the black dread, there

was this one chance to speak as himself-not as Itani Noygu or some other

mask. And if it offended the court, there was little worse they could do

to him than he faced now. His father hesitated, and Otah spoke.

"I have seen many of the cities of the Khaiem, most high. I have been

horn into the highest of families, and I have been offered the greatest

of honors. And if I am here to meet my death at the hands of those who

should by all rights love me, at least hear me out. Our cities are not

well, father. Our traditions are not well. You stand there on that dais

now because you killed your own. You are celebrating the return of

Danat, who killed his brother, and at the same time preparing to condemn

me on the suspicion that I did the same. A tradition that calls men to

kill their brothers and discard their sons cannot be-"

"Enough!" the Khai roared, and his voice carried. The whisperers were

silent and unneeded. "I have not carried this city on my back for all

these years to be lectured now by a rebel and a traitor and a poisoner.

You are not my son! You lost that right! You squandered it! Tell me that

this ..." The Khai raised his hands in a gesture that seemed to encom

pass every man and woman of the court, the palaces, the city, the

valley, the mountains, the world. ". . . this is evil? Because our

traditions are what hold all this from chaos. We are the Khaiem! We rule

with the power of the andat, and we do not accept instruction from

couriers and laborers who ... who killed ..."

The Khai closed his eyes and seemed to sway for a moment. The woman to

whom C'chmai had been speaking leapt up, her hand on the old man's

elbow. Otah could see them murmuring to each other, but he had no idea

what they were saying. The woman walked with him back to the chair and

helped him to sit. His face seemed sunken in pain. The woman was

crying-streaks of kohl black on her cheeks-but her bearing was more

regal and sure than their father's had been. She stepped forward and spoke.

"The Khai is weary," she said, as if daring anyone present to say

anything else. "He has given his command. The audience is finished!"

The voices rose almost as high and ran almost as loud as they had at

anything that had gone before. A woman-even if she was his

daughter-taking the initiative to speak for the Khai? The court would be

scandalized. Otah already imagined them placing bets as to whether the

man would live the night, and if he died now, whether it would he this

woman's fault for shaming him so deeply when he was already weak. And

Otah could see that she knew this. The contempt in her expression was

eloquent as any oratory. He caught her eye and took a pose of approval.

She looked at him as if he were a stranger who had spoken her name, then

turned away to help their father walk back to his rooms.

The march up to his cage led through a spiral stone stair so small that

his shoulders touched each wall, and his head stayed bent. The chain

stayed on his neck, his hands now bound behind him. He watched the

armsman before him half walking, half climbing the steep blocks of

stone. When Otah slowed, the man behind him struck with the butt of a

spear and laughed. Otah, his hands bound, sprawled against the steps,

ripping the flesh of his knees and chin. After that, he made a point to

slow as little as possible.

His thighs burned with each step and the constant turning to the right

left him nauseated. He thought of stopping, of refusing to move. They

were taking him up to wait for death anyway. There was nothing to he

gained by collaborating with them. But he went on, cursing tinder his

breath.

When the stairs ended, he found himself in a wide hall. The sky doors in

the north wall were open, and a platform hung level with them and

shifting slightly in the breeze, the great chains taut. Another four

armsmen stood waiting.

"Relief?" the man who had pushed him asked.

The tallest of the new armsmen took a pose of affirmation and spoke.

"We'll take the second half. You four head up and we'll all go down

together." The new armsmen led Otah to a fresh stairway, and the ordeal

began again. He had begun almost to dream in his pain by the time they

stopped. Thick, powerful hands pushed him into a room, and the door

closed behind him with a sound like a capstone being shoved over an open

tomb. The armsman said something through a slit in the door, but Otah

couldn't make sense of it and didn't have the will to try. He lay on the

floor until he realized that his arms had been freed and the iron collar

taken from around his neck. The skin where it had rested was chafed raw.

The voices of men seeped through the door, and then the sound of a winch

creaking as it lowered the platform and its cargo of men. Then there

were only two voices speaking in light, conversational tones. He

couldn't make out a word they said.

He forced himself to sit up and take stock. The room was larger than

he'd expected, and bare. It could have been used as a storage room or

set with table and chairs for a small meeting. There was a bowl of water

in one corner, but no food, no candles, nothing but the stone to sleep

on. The light came from a barred window. His hip and knees ached as Otah

pulled himself up and stumbled over to it. He was facing south, and the

view was like he'd become a bird. He leaned out-the bars were not so

narrowly spaced that he couldn't climb out and fall to his death if he

chose. Below him, the carts in the streets were like ants shuffling

along in their lines. A crow launched itself from a crack or beam and

circled below him, the sun shining on its black back. Trembling, he

pulled himself back in. There were no shutters to close off the sky.

He tried the door's latch, but it had been barred from without, and the

hinges were leather and worked iron. Not the sort of thing a man could

take apart with teeth. Otah knelt by the bowl of water and drank from

his cupped hand. He washed out the worst of his wounds, and left a third

in the bowl. There was no knowing how long it might be before they saw

fit to give him more. He wondered if there were birds that came up this

high to rest, and whether he would be able to trap one. Not that he

would have the chance to cook it-there was nothing to burn here, and no

grate to burn it in. Otah ran his hands over his face, and despite

himself, laughed. It seemed unlikely they would allow him anything sharp

enough to shave with. He would die with this sad little beard.

Otah stretched out in a corner, his arm thrown over his eyes, and tried

to sleep, wondering as he did whether the sense of movement came from

his own abused and exhausted body, or if it were true that so far up

even stone swayed.

MAATI LOOKED AT THE FLOOR. HIS FACE WAS HARD WITH FRUSTRATION AND anger.

"If you want him dead, most high," he said, his voice measured and

careful, "you might at least have the courtesy to kill him."

The Khai Machi raised the clay pipe to his lips. He seemed less to

breathe the smoke in than to drink it. The sweet resin from it had

turned every surface in the room slightly tacky to the touch. The

servant in the blue and gold robes of a physician sat discreetly in a

dim corner, pretending not to hear the business of the city. The

rosewood door was closed behind them. Lanterns of sanded glass filled

the room with soft light, rendering them all shadowless.

"I've listened to you, Maati-cha. I didn't end him there in the audience

chamber. I am giving you the time you asked," the old man said. "Why do

you keep pressing me?"

"He has no blankets or fire. The guards have given him three meals in

the last four days. And l)anat will return before I've had word hack

from the I)ai-kvo. If this is all you can offer, most high-"

"You can state your case to l)anat-cha as eloquently as you could to

me," the Khai said.

"There'll be no point if Otah dies of cold or throws himself out the

tower window before then," Maati said. "Let me take him food and a thick

robe. Let me talk with him."

"It's hopeless," the Khai said.

"Then there's nothing lost but my effort, and it will keep me from

troubling you further."

"Your work here is complete, isn't it? Why are you bothering me,

Maati-cha? You were sent to find Otah. He's found."

"I was sent to find if he was behind the death of Biitrah, and if he was

not, to discover who was. I have not carried out that task. I won't

leave until I have."

The Khai's expression soured, and he shook his head. His skin had grown

thinner, the veins at his temples showing dark. When he leaned forward,

tapping the howl of his pipe against the side of the iron brazier with a

sound like pebbles falling on stone, his grace could not hide his

discomfort.

"I begin to wonder, Maati-cha, whether you have been entirely honest

with me. You say that there is no great love between you and my upstart

son. You bring him to me, and for that reason alone, I believe you.

Everything else you have done suggests the other. You argue that it was

not he who arranged Biitrah's death, though you have no suggestion who

else might have. You ask for indulgences for the prisoner, you appeal to

the Dai-kvo in hopes ..

A sudden pain seemed to touch the old man's features and one

nearskeletal hand moved toward his belly.

"There is a shadow in your city," Maati said. "You've called it by

Utah's name, but none of it shows any connection with Otah: not Biitrah,

not the attack on me, not the murder of the assassin. None of the other

couriers of any house report anything that would suggest he was more

than he appeared. By his own word, he'd fled the city before the attack

on me, and didn't return before the assassin was killed. How is it that

he arranged all these things with no one seeing him? No one knowing his

name? How is it that, now he's trapped, no one has offered to sell him

in trade for their own lives?"

"Who then?"

"I don't ..."

"Who else gained from these things?"

"Your son, Danat," Maati said. "He broke the pact. If all this talk of

Otah was a ploy to distract Kaiin from the real danger, then it worked,

most high. Danat will be the new Khai Machi."

"Ask him when he comes. He will be the Khai Machi, and if he has done as

you said, then there's no crime in it and no reason that he should hide it."

"A poet was attacked-"

"And did you die? Are you dying? No? Then don't ask sympathy from me.

Go, Maati-cha. Take the prisoner anything you like. Take him a pony and

let him ride it around his cell, if that pleases you. Only don't return

to me. Any business you have with me now, you have with my son.

The Khai took a pose of command that ended the audience, and Maati

stood, took a pose of gratitude that he barely felt, and withdrew from

the meeting room. He stalked along the corridors of the palace seething.

Back in his apartments, he took stock. He had gathered together his

bundle even before he'd gone to the audience. A good wool robe, a rough

cloth hag filled with nut breads and dry cheeses, and a flask of fresh

water. Everything that he thought the Khai's men would permit. He folded

it all together and tied it with twine.

At the base of the great tower, armsmcn stood guard at the platform-a

metalwork that ran on tracks set into the stone of the tower, large

enough to carry twelve men. The chains that held it seemed entirely too

thin. Maati identified himself, thinking his poet's robe, reputation,

and haughty demeanor might suffice to make the men do as he instructed.

Instead, a runner was sent to the Khai's palace to confirm that Maati

was indeed permitted to see the prisoner and to give him the little

gifts that he carried. Once word was brought back, Maati climbed on the

platform, and the signalman on the ground blew a call on a great

trumpet. The chains went taut, and the platform rose. Maati held onto

the rail, his knuckles growing whiter as the ground receded. Wind

plucked at his sleeves as the roofs of even the greatest palaces fell

away below him. The only things so high as he was were the towers, the

birds, and the mountains. It was beautiful and exhilarating, and all he

could think the whole time was what would happen if a single link in any

of the four chains gave way. When he reached the open sky doors at the

top, the captain of the armsmen took him solidly by his arm and helped

him step in.

"First time, eh?" the captain said, and his men chuckled, but not

cruelly. It was a journey each of them risked, Maati realized, every

day. These men were more likely to die for the vanity of Machi than he.

He smiled and nodded, stepping away from the open space of the sky door.

"I've come to see the prisoner," he said.

"I know," the captain said. "The trumpet said as much, if you knew to

listen for it. But understand, if he attacks you-if he tries to bargain

your life for his freedom-I'll send your body down. You make your choice

when you go in there. I can't be responsible for it."

The captain's expression was stern. Maati saw that he thought this

possible, the danger real. Maati took a pose of thanks, hampered

somewhat by the bundle under his arm. The captain only nodded and led

him to a huge wooden door. Four of his men drew their blades as he

unbarred it and let it swing in. Maati took a deep breath and stepped

through.

Otah was huddled in a corner, his arms wrapped around his knees. He

looked up and then back down. Maati heard the door close behind him,

heard the bar slide home. All those men to protect him from this

half-dead rag.

"I've brought food," Maati said. "I considered wine, but it seemed too

much like a celebration."

Otah chuckled, a thick phlegmy sound.

"It would have gone to my head too quickly anyway," he said, his voice

weak. "I'm too old to go drinking without a good meal first."

Maati knelt and unfolded the robe and arranged the food he'd brought. It

seemed too little now, but when he broke off a corner of nut bread and

held it out, Otah nodded his gratitude and took it. Maati opened the

flask of water, put it beside Otah's feet, and sat back.

"What news?" Otah asked. "I don't hear much gossip up here."

"It's all as straightforward as a maze," Maati said. "House Siyanti is

calling in every favor it has not to be banned from the city. Your old

overseer has been going to each guild chapter house individually.

There's even rumor he's been negotiating with hired armsmen."

"He must be frightened for his life," Otah said and shook his head

wearily. "I'm sorry to have done that to him. But I suppose there's

little enough I can do about it now. There does always seem to be a

price people pay for knowing me."

Maati looked at his hands. For a moment he considered holding his

tongue. It would be worse, he thought, holding out hope if there was

none. But it was all that he had left to offer.

"I've sent to the Dai-kvo. I may have a way that you can survive this,"

he said. "There's no precedent for someone refusing the offer to become

a poet. It's possible that ..."

Otah sipped the water and put down the flask. His brow was furrowed.

"You've asked him to make me a poet?" Otah asked.

"I didn't say it would work," Maati said. "Only that I'd done it."

"Well, thank you for that much."

Otah reached out, took another hit of bread, and leaned back. The effort

seemed to exhaust him. Nlaati rose and paced the room. The view from the

window was lovely and inhuman. No one had ever been meant to see so far

at once. A thought occurred, and he looked in the corners of the room.

"Have they ... there's no night bucket," he said.

Otah raised one arm in a wide gesture toward the world outside.

"I've been using the window," he said. Maati smiled, and Otah smiled

with him. 't'hen for a moment they were laughing together.

"Well, that must confuse people in the streets," Maati said.

"Very large pigeons," Otah said. "They blame very large pigeons."

Maati grinned, and then felt the smile fade.

"They're going to kill, you Otah-kvo. The Khai and Danat. 't'hey can't

let you live. You're too well known, and they think you'll act against

them."

"They won't make do with blinding inc and casting me into the

wilderness, eh?"

"I'll make the suggestion, if you like."

Otah's laugh was thinner now. Ile took up the cheese, digging into its

pale flesh with his fingers. lie held a sliver out to Maati, offering to

share it. Maati hesitated, and then accepted it. It was smooth as cream

and salty. It would go well with the nut bread, he guessed.

"I knew this was likely to happen when I chose to come back," Otah said.

"I'm not pleased by it, but it will spare Kiyan, won't it? They won't

keep pressing her?"

"I can't see why they would," Maati said.

"Dying isn't so had, then," Otah said. "At least it does something for her."

"Do you mean that?"

"I might as well, Nlaati-kya. Unless you plan to sneak me out in your

sleeve, I think I'm going to he spared the rigors of a northern winter.

I don't see there's anything to be done about that."

Maati sighed and nodded. He rose and took a pose of farewell. Even just

the little food and the short time seemed to have made Otah stronger. He

didn't rise, but he took a pose that answered the farewell. Maati walked

to the door and pounded to be let out. He heard the scrape of the bar

being raised. Otah spoke.

"Thank you for all this. It's kind."

"I'm not doing it for you, Otah-kvo."

"All the same. Thank you."

Maati didn't reply. The door opened, and he stepped out. The captain of

the armsmen started to speak, but something in Maati's expression

stopped him. Maati strode to the sky doors and out to the platform as if

he were walking into a hallway and not an abyss of air. He clasped his

hands behind him and looked out over the roofs of Machi. What had been

vertiginous only recently failed to move him now. His mind and heart

were too full. When he reached the ground again, he walked briskly to

his apartments. The wound in his belly itched badly, but he kept himself

from worrying it. He only gathered his papers, sat on a deck of oiled

wood that looked out over gardens of summer trees and ornate flowers a

brighter red than blood, and planned out the remainder of his day.

There were still two armsmen from the cages with whom he hadn't spoken.

If he knew who had killed the assassin, it would likely lead him nearer

the truth. And the slaves and servants of the Third Palace might be

persuaded to speak more of Danat Machi, now that he was coming back

covered in the glory of his brother's blood. If he had used the story of

Otah the Upstart to distract his remaining brother from his schemes ...

A servant boy interrupted, announcing Cehmai. Maati took a pose of

acknowledgment and had the young poet brought to him. He looked unwell,

Maati thought. His skin was too pale, his eyes troubled. He couldn't

think that Otah-kvo was bothering Cehmai badly, but surely something was.

Still, the boy managed a grin and when he sat, he moved with more energy

than Maati himself felt.

"You sent for me, Maati-kvo?"

"I have work," he said. "You offered to help me with this project once.

And I could do with your aid, if you still wish to lend it."

"You aren't stopping?"

Maati considered. He could say again that the Dai-kvo had told him to

discover the murderer of Biitrah Machi and whether Otah-kvo had had a

hand in it, and that until he'd done so, he would keep to his task. It

had been a strong enough argument for the utkhaiem, even for the Khai.

But Cehmai had known the Dai-kvo as well as he had, and more recently.

He would see how shallow the excuse was. In the end he only shook his head.

"I am not stopping," he said.

"May I ask why not?"

"They are going to kill Otah-kvo."

"Yes," Cehmai agreed, his voice calm and equable. Maati might as well

have said that winter would be cold.

"And I have a few days to find whose crimes he's carrying."

Cehmai frowned and took a pose of query.

"They'll kill him anyway," Cehmai said. "If he killed Biitrah, they'll

execute him for that. If he didn't, Danat will do the thing to keep his

claim to be the Khai. Either way he's a dead man."

"That's likely true," Maati said. "But I've done everything else I can

think to do, and this is still left, so I'll do this. If there is

anything at all I can do, I have to do it."

"In order to save your teacher," Cehmai said, as if he understood.

"To sleep better twenty years from now," Maati said, correcting him. "If

anyone asks, I want to he able to say that I did what could be done. And

I want to be able to mean it. "That's more important to me than saving him."

Cehmai seemed puzzled, but Maati found no better way to express it

without mentioning his son's name, and that would open more than it

would close. Instead he waited, letting the silence argue for him.

Cehmai took a pose of acceptance at last, and then tilted his head.

"Maati-kvo ... I'm sorry, but when was the last time you slept?"

Maati smiled and ignored the question.

"I'm going to meet with one of the armsmen who saw my assassin killed,"

he said. "I was wondering if I could impose on you to find some servant

from Danat's household with whom I might speak later this evening. I

have a few questions about him ..

DANAT MACIII ARRIVED LIKE. A HERO. THE STREETS WERE FILLET) WITH people

cheering and singing. Festivals filled the squares. Young girls danced

through the streets in lines, garlands of summer blossoms in their hair.

And from his litter strewn with woven gold and silver, Danat Machi

looked out like a protective father indulging a well-loved child. Idaan

had been present when the word came that Danat Machi waited at the

bridge for his father's permission to enter the city. She had gone down

behind the runner to watch the doors fly open and the celebration that

had been building spill out into the dark stone streets. They would have

sting as loud for Kaiin, if Danat had been dead.

While Danat's caravan slogged its way through the crowds, Idaan

retreated to the palaces. The panoply of the utkhaiem was hardly more

restrained than the common folk. Members of all the high families

appeared as if by chance outside the Third Palace's great hall.

Musicians and singers entertained with beautiful ballads of great

warriors returning home from the field, of time and life renewed in a

new generation. They were songs of the proper function of the world. It

was as if no one had known Biitrah or Kaiin, as if the wheel of the

world were not greased with her family's blood. Idaan watched with a

calm, pleasant expression while her soul twisted with disgust.

When Danat reached the long, broad yard and stepped down from his

litter, a cheer went up from all those present; even from her. Danat

raised his arms and smiled to them all, beaming like a child on Candles

Night. His gaze found her, and he strode through the crowd to her side.

Idaan raised her chin and took a pose of greeting. It was what she was

expected to do. He ignored it and picked her up in a great hug, swinging

her around as if she weighed nothing, and then placed her back on her

own feet.

"Sister," he said, smiling into her eyes. "I can't say how glad I am to

see you.

"Danat-kya," she said, and then failed.

"How are things with our father?"

The sorrow that was called for here was at least easier than the feigned

delight. She saw it echoed in Danat's eyes. So close to him, she could

see the angry red in the whites of his eyes, the pallor in his skin. He

was wearing paint, she realized. Rouge on his cheeks and lips and some

warm-toned powder to lend his skin the glow of health. Beneath it, he

was sallow. She wondered if he'd grown sick, and whether there was some

slow poison that might be blamed for his death.

"He has been looking forward to seeing you," she said.

"Yes. Yes, of course. And I hear that you're to become a Vaunyogi. I'm

pleased for you. Adrah's a good man."

"I love him," she said, surprised to find that in some dim way it was

still truth. "But how are you, brother? Are you ... are things well with

you?"

For a moment, Danat seemed about to answer. She thought she saw

something weaken in him, his mouth losing its smile, his eyes looking

into a darkness like the one she carried. In the end, he shook himself

and kissed her forehead, then turned again to the crowd and made his way

to the Khai's palace, greeting and rejoicing with everyone who crossed

his path. And it was only the beginning. Danat and their father would be

closeted away for a time, then the ritual welcome from the heads of the

families of the utkhaicm. And then festivities and celebrations, feasts

and dances and revelry in the streets and palaces and teahouses.

Idaan made her way to the compound of the Vaunyogi, and to Adrah and his

father. The house servants greeted her with smiles and poses of welcome.

The chief overseer led her to a small meeting room in the hack. If it

seemed odd that this room-windowless and dark-was used now in the summer

when most gatherings were in gardens or open pavilions, the overseer

made no note of it. Nothing could have been more different from the mood

in the city than the one here; like a winter night that had crept into

summer.

"Has House Vaunyogi forgotten where it put its candles?" she asked, and

turned to the overseer. "Find a lantern or two. These fine men may be

suffering from their drink, but I've hardly begun to celebrate."

The overseer took a pose that acknowledged the command and scampered

off, returning immediately with his gathered light. Adrah and his father

sat at a long stone table. Dark tapestries hung from the wall, red and

orange and gold. When the doors were safely closed behind them, Idaan

pulled out one of the stools and sat on it. tier gaze moved from the

father's face to the son's. She took a pose of query.

"You seem distressed," she said. "The whole city is loud with my

brother's glory, and you two are skulking in here like criminals."

"We have reason to be distressed," Daaya Vaunyogi said. She wondered

whether Adrah would age into the same loose jowls and watery eyes. "I've

finally reached the Galts. They've cooled. Killing Oshai's made them

nervous, and now with Danat back ... we expected to have the fighting

between your brothers to cover our ... our work. There's no hope of that

now. And that poet hasn't stopped hunting around, even with the holes

Oshai poked in him."

""The more reason you have to be distressed," Idaan said, "the more

important that you should not seem it. Besides, I still have two living

brothers."

"Ah, and you have some way to make Danat die at Otah's hand?" the old

man said. There was mockery in his voice, but there was also hope. And

fear. He had seen what she had done, and perhaps now he thought her

capable of anything. She supposed that would be something worthy of his

hope and fear.

"I don't have the details. But, yes. The longer we wait, the more

suspicious it will look when Danat and the poet die."

"You still want Maati Vaupathai dead?" Daaya asked.

"Otah is locked away, and the poet's digging. Maati Vaupathai isn't

satisfied to blame the upstart for everything, even if the whole city

besides him is. There are three breathing men between Adrah and my

father's chair. Danat, Otah, and the poet. I'll need armsmen, though, to

do what I intend. How many could you put together? They would have to he

men you trust."

Daaya looked at his son, as if expecting to find some answer there, but

Adrah neither spoke nor moved. He might very nearly not have been there

at all. Idaan swallowed her impatience and leaned forward, her palms

spread on the cool stone of the table. One of the candles sputtered and

spat.

"I know a man. A mercenary lord. He's done work for me before and kept

quiet," Daaya said at last. He didn't seem certain.

"We'll free the upstart and slit the poet's throat," Idaan said. "There

won't be any question who's actually done the thing. No sane person

would doubt that it was Otah's hand. And when Danat rides out to find

him, our men will be ready to ride with him. That will be the dangerous

part. You'll have to find a way to get him apart from anyone else who goes.

"And the upstart?" Daaya asked.

"He'll go where we tell him to go. We'll just have saved him, after all.

't'here will be no reason to think we mean him harm. They'll all be dead

in time for the wedding, and if we do it well, the joy that is our

bonding will put us as the clear favorites to take the chair. That

should be enough to push the Galts into action. Adrah will be Khai

before the harvest."

Idaan leaned hack, smiling in grim satisfaction. It was Adrah who broke

the silence, his voice calm and sure and unlike him.

"It won't work."

Idaan began to take a pose of challenge, but she hesitated when she saw

his eyes. Adrah had gone cold as winter. It wasn't fear that drove him,

whatever his father's weakness. There was something else in him, and

Idaan felt a stirring of unease.

"I can't sec why not," Idaan said, her voice still strong and sure.

"Killing the poet and freeing Otah would be simple enough to manage. But

the other. No. It supposes that Danat would lead the hunt himself. He

wouldn't. And if he doesn't, the whole thing falls apart. It won't work."

"I say that he would," Idaan said.

"And I say that your history planning these schemes isn't one that

inspires confidence," Adrah said and stood. The candlelight caught his

face at an angle, casting shadows across his eyes. Idaan rose, feeling

the blood rushing into her face.

"I was the one who saved us when Oshai fell," she said. "You two were

mewling like kittens, and crying despair-"

"That's enough," Adrah said.

"I don't recall you being in a position to order me when to speak and

when to he silent."

Daaya coughed, looking from one to the other of them like a lamb caught

between wolf and lion. The smile that touched Adrah's mouth was thin and

unamused.

"Idaan-kya," Adrah said, "I am to be your husband and the Khai of this

city. Sit with that. Your plan to free Oshai failed. Do you understand

that? It failed. It lost us the support of our hackers, it killed the

man most effective in carrying out these unfortunate duties we've taken

on, and it exposed me and my father to risk. You failed before, and this

scheme you've put before us now would also fail if we did as you propose.

Adrah began to pace slowly, one hand brushing the hanging tapestries.

Idaan shook her head, remembering some epic she'd seen when she was

young. A performer in the role of Black Chaos had moved as Adrah moved

now. Idaan felt her heart grow tight.

"It isn't that it's without merit-the shape of it generally is useful,

but the specifics are wrong. If Danat is to grab what men he can find

and rush out into the night, it can't be because he's off to avenge a

poet. He would have to be possessed by some greater passion. And it

would help if he were drunk, but I don't know that we can arrange that."

"So if not the Maati Vaupathai ... ," she began, and her throat closed.

Cehmai, she thought. He means to kill Cehmai and free the andat. Her

hands balled into fists, her heart thudded as if she'd been sprinting.

Adrah turned to face her, his arms folded, his expression calm as a

butcher in the slaughterhouse.

"You said there were three breaths blocking us. There's a fourth. Your

father."

No one spoke. When Idaan laughed, it sounded shrill and panicked in her

own cars. She took a pose that rejected the suggestion.

"You've gone mad, Adrah-kya. You've lost all sense. My father is dying.

He's dying, there's no call to ..."

"What else would enrage Danat enough to let his caution slip? The

upstart escapes. Your father is murdered. In the confusion, we come to

him, a hunting party in hand, ready to ride with him. We can put it out

today that we're planning to ride out before the end of the week. Fresh

meat for the wedding feast, we'll say."

"It won't work," Idaan said, raising her chin.

"And why not?" Adrah replied.

"Because I won't let you!"

She spun and grabbed for the door. As she hauled it open, Adrah was

around her, his arms pressing it shut again. Daaya was there too, his

wide hands patting at her in placating gestures that filled her with

rage. Her mind left her, and she shrieked and howled and wept. She

clawed at them both and kicked and tried to bite her way free, but

Adrah's arms locked around her, lifted her, tightened until she lost her

breath and the room spun and grew darker.

She found herself sitting again without knowing when she'd been set

down. Adrah was raising a cup to her lips. Strong, unwatered wine. She

sipped it, then pushed it away.

"Have you calmed yourself yet?" Adrah asked. There was warmth in his

voice again, as if she'd been sick and was only just recovering.

"You can't do it, Adrah-kya. He's an old man, and ..."

Adrah let the silence stretch before he leaned toward her and wiped her

lips with a soft cloth. She was trembling, and it annoyed her. Her body

was supposed to be stronger than that.

"It will cost him a few days," Adrah said. "A few weeks at most.

Idaan-kya, his murder is the thing that will draw your brother out if

anything will. You said it to me, love. If we falter, we fail."

He smiled and caressed her cheek with back of his hand. Daaya was at the

table, drinking wine of his own. Idaan looked into Adrah's dark eyes,

and despite the smiles, despite the caresses, she saw the hardness

there. I should have said no, she thought. When he asked if I had taken

another lover, I shouldn't have danced around it. I should have said no.

She nodded.

"We can make it quick. Painless," Adrah said. "It will be a mercy,

really. His life as it is now can hardly be worth living. Sick, weak.

That's no way for a proud man to live."

She nodded again. Her father. The simple pleasure in his eyes.

"He wanted so much to see us wed," she murmured. "He wanted so much for

me to be happy."

Adrah took a pose that offered sympathy, but she wasn't such a fool as

to believe it. She rose shakily to her feet. They did not stop her.

"I should go," she said. "I'll be expected at the palaces. I expect

there will be food and song until the sun comes up."

Daaya looked up. His smile was sickly, but Adrah took a pose of

reassurance and the old man looked away again.

"I'm trusting you, Idaan-kya," Adrah said. "To let you go. It's because

I trust you."

"It's because you can't lock me away without attracting attention. If I

vanish, people will wonder why, and my brother not the least. We can't

have that, can we? Everything must seem perfectly normal."

"It still might be wise, locking you away," Adrah said. He pretended to

be joking, but she could see the debate going on behind his eyes. For a

moment, her life spread out before her. The first wife of the Khai

Machi, looking into these eyes. She had loved him once. She had to

remember that. Idaan smiled, leaned forward, kissed his lips.

"I'm only sad," she said. "It will pass. I'll come and meet you

tomorrow. We can plan what needs to be done."

Outside, the revelry had spread. Garlands arched above the streets.

Choirs had assembled and their voices made the city chime like a struck

bell. Joy and relief were everywhere, except in her. For most of the

afternoon, she moved from feast to feast, celebration to

celebration-always careful not to be touched or bumped, afraid she might

break like a girl made from spun sugar. As the sun hovered three hands'

widths above the mountains to the west, she found the face she had been

longing for.

Cehmai and Stone-Made-Soft were in a glade, sitting with a dozen

children of the utkhaiem. The little boys and girls were sitting on the

grass, grinding green into their silk robes with knees and elbows, while

three slaves performed with puppets and dolls. The players squealed and

whistled and sang, the puppets hopped and tumbled, beat one another, and

fled. The children laughed. Cehmai himself was stretched out like a

child, and two adventurous girls were sitting in Stone-MadeSoft's wide

lap, their arms around each other. The andat seemed mildly amused.

When Cehmai caught sight of her, he came over immediately. She smiled as

she had been doing all day, took a greeting pose that her hands had

shaped a hundred times since morning. He was the first one, she thought,

to see through pose and smile both.

"What's happened?" he asked, stepping close. His eyes were as dark as

Adrah's, but they were soft. They were young. There wasn't any hatred

there yet, or any pain. Or perhaps she only wished that was true. Her

smile faltered.

"Nothing," she said, and he took her hand. Here where they might be

seen-where the children at least were sure to see them-he took her hand

and she let him.

"What's happened?" he repeated, his voice lower and closer. She shook

her head.

"My father is going to die," she said, her voice breaking on the words,

her lips growing weak. "My father's going to die, and there's nothing I

can do to help it. No way for me to stop it. And the only time crying

makes me feel better is when I can do it with you. Isn't that strange?"

Cchmai rode tip the wide track, switchbacking up the side of the

mountain. The ore chute ran straight from the mine halfway up the

mountain's face to the carter's base at its foot. When the path turned

toward it, Cchmai considered the broad beams and pillars that held the

chute smooth and even down the rough mountainside. When they turned

away, he looked south to where the towers of Machi stood like reeds in

the noonday sun. His head ached.

"We do appreciate your coming, Cehmai-cha," the mine's engineer said

again. "With the new Khai come home, we thought everyone would put

business off for a few days."

Cchmai didn't bother taking a pose accepting the thanks as he had the

first few times. Repetition had made it clear that the gratitude was

less than wholly sincere. He only nodded and angled his horse around the

next bend, swinging around to a view of the ore chute.

There were six of them; Cchmai and Stone-blade-Soft, the mine's

engineer, the overseer with the diagrams and contracts in a leather

satchel on his hip, and two servants to carry the water and food.

Normally there would have been twice as many people. Cehmai wondered how

many miners would he in the tunnels, then found he didn't particularly

care, and returned to contemplating the ore chute and his headache.

They had left before dawn, trekking to the Raadani mines. It had been

arranged weeks before, and business and money carried a momentum that

even stone didn't. A landslide might overrun a city, but it only went

down. Something had to have tremendous power to propel something as

tired and heavy as he felt up the mountainside. Something in the back of

his mind twitched at the thought-attention shifting of its own accord

like an extra limb moving without his willing it.

"Stop," Cehmai snapped.

The overseer and engineer hesitated for a moment before Cehmai

understood their confusion.

"Not you," he said and gestured to Stone-Made-Soft. "Him. He was judging

what it would take to start a landslide."

"Only as an exercise," the andat said, its low voice sounding both hurt

and insincere. "I wasn't going to do it."

The engineer looked up the slope with an expression that suggested

Cehmai might not hear any more false thanks. Cehmai felt a spark of

vindictive pleasure at the man's unease and saw Stone-Made-Soft's lips

thin so slightly that no other man alive would have recognized the smile.

Idaan had spent the first night of the festival with him, weeping and

laughing, taking comfort and coupling until they had both fallen asleep

in the middle of their pillow talk. The night candle had hardly burned

down a full quarter mark when the servant had come, tapping on his door

to wake him. He'd risen for the trek to the mines, and Idaan- alone in

his bed-had turned, wrapping his bedclothes about her naked body, and

watched him as if afraid he would tell her to leave. By the time he had

found fresh robes, her eyelids had closed again and her breath was deep

and slow. He'd paused for a moment, considering her sleeping face. With

the paint worn off and the calm of sleep, she looked younger. Her lips,

barely parted, looked too soft to bruise his own, and her skin glowed

like honey in sunlight.

But instead of slipping back into bed and sending out a servant for new

apples, old cheese, and sugared almonds, he'd strapped on his boots and

gone out to meet his obligations. His horse plodded along, flies buzzed

about his face, and the path turned away from the ore chute and looked

back toward the city.

There would be celebrations from now until Idaan's wedding to Adrah

Vaunyogi. Between those two joys-the finished succession and the

marriage of the high families-there would also be the preparations for

the Khai Machi's final ceremony. And, despite everything Maati-kvo had

done, likely the execution of Otah Machi in there as well. With as many

rituals and ceremonies as the city faced, they'd be lucky to get any

real work done before winter.

The yipping of the mine dogs brought him back to himself, and he

realized he'd been half-dozing for the last few switchbacks. He rubbed

his eyes with the heel of his palm. He would have to pull himself

together when they began working in earnest. It would help, he told

himself, to have some particular problem to set his mind to instead of

the tedium of travel. Thankfully, Stone-Made-Soft wasn't resisting him

today. The effort it would have taken to force the unwilling andat to do

as it was told could have pushed the day from merely unpleasant to awful.

They reached the mouth of the mine and were greeted by several workers

and minor functionaries. Cehmai dismounted and walked Unsteadily to the

wide table that had been set up for their consultations. His legs and

back and head ached. When the drawings and notes were laid out before

him, it took effort to turn his attention to them. His mind wandered off

to Idaan or his own discomfort or the mental windstorm that was the andat.

"We would like to join these two passages," the overseer was saying, his

fingers tracing lines on the maps. Cehmai had seen hundreds of sets of

plans like this, and his mind picked up the markings and translated them

into holes dug through the living rock of the mountain only slightly

less easily than usual. "The vein seems richest here and then here. Our

concern is-"

"My concern," the engineer broke in, "is not bringing half the mountain

down on us while we do it."

The structure of tunnels that honeycombed the mountain wasn't the most

complicated Cehmai had ever seen, but neither was it simple. The mines

around Machi were capable of a complexity difficult in the rest of the

world, mostly because he himself was not in the rest of the world, and

mines in the Westlands and Galt weren't interested in paying the Khai

Mach] for his services. The engineer made his casewhere the stone would

support the tunnels and where it would not. The overseer made his

counter-case-pointing out where the ores seemed richest. The decision

was left to him.

The servants gave them bowls of honeyed beef and sausages that tasted of

smoke and black pepper; a tart, sweet paste made from last year's

berries; and salted Hatbrcad. Cehmai ate and drank and looked at the

maps and drawings. Fie kept remembering the curve of Idaan's mouth, the

feeling of her hips against his own. He remembered her tears, her

reticence. He would have sacrificed a good deal to better understand her

sorrow.

It was more, he thought, than the struggle to face her father's mortal

ity. Perhaps he should talk to Maati about it. He was older and had

greater experience with women. Cehmai shook his head and forced himself

to concentrate. It was half a hand before he saw a path through the

stone that would yield a fair return and not collapse the works.

Stone-Made-Soft neither approved nor dissented. It never did.

The overseer took a pose of gratitude and approval, then folded tip the

maps. The engineer sucked his teeth, craning his neck as the diagrams

and notes vanished into the overseer's satchel, as if hoping to see one

last objection, but then he too took an approving pose. They lit the

lanterns and turned to the wide, black wound in the mountain's side.

The tunnels were cool, and darker than night. The smell of rock dust

made the air thick. As he'd guessed, there were few men working, and the

sounds of their songs and the barking of their dogs only made the

darkness seem more isolating. They talked very little as they wound

their way through the maze. Usually Cehmai made a practice of keeping a

mental map, tracking their progress through the dark passages. After the

second unexpected intersection, he gave up and was content to let the

overseer lead them.

Unlike the mines on the plain, even the deepest tunnels here were dry.

When they reached the point Cehmai had chosen, they took out the maps

one last time, consulting them in the narrow section of the passageway

that the lanterns lit. Above them, the mountain felt bigger than the sky.

"Don't make it too soft," the engineer said.

"It doesn't bear any load," the overseer said. "Gods! Who's been telling

you ghost stories? You're nervous as a puppy first time down the hole."

Cehmai ignored them, looked up, considering the stone above him as if he

could see through it. He wanted a path wide as two men walking with

their arms outstretched. And it would need to go forward from here and

then tilt to the left and then up. Cehmai pictured the distances as if

he would walk them. It was about as far from where he was now to the

turning point as from the rose pavilion to the library. And then, the

shorter leg would be no longer than the walk from the library to Maati's

apartments. He turned his mind to it, pressed the whirlwind, applied it

to the stone before him, slowly, carefully loosening the stone in the

path he had imagined. Stone-Made-Soft resisted-not in the body that

scowled now looking at the tunnel's blank side, but in their shared

mind. The andat shifted and writhed and pushed, though not so badly as

it might have. Cehmai reached the turning point, shifted his attention

and began the shorter, upward movement.

The storm's energy turned and leapt ahead, spreading like spilled water,

pushing its influence out of the channel Cehmai's intention had

prepared. Cehmai gritted his teeth with the effort of pulling it back in

before the structure above them weakened and failed. The andat pressed

again, trying to pull the mountain down on top of them. Cehmai felt a

rivulet of sweat run down past his ear. The overseer and the engineer

were speaking someplace a long way off, but he couldn't be bothered by

them. They were idiots to distract him. He paused and gathered the

storm, concentrated on the ideas and grammars that had tied the andat to

him in the first place, that had held it for generations. And when it

had been brought to heel, he took it the rest of the way through his

pathway and then slowly, carefully, brought his mind, and its, back to

where they stood.

"Cehmai-cha?" the overseer asked again. The engineer was eyeing the

walls as if they might start speaking with him.

"I'm done," he said. "It's fine. I only have a headache."

Stone-Made-Soft smiled placidly. Neither of them would tell the men how

near they had all just come to dying: Cehmai, because he wished to keep

it from them, Stone-Made-Soft, because it would never occur to it to care.

The overseer took a hand pick from his satchel and struck the wall. The

metal head chimed and a white mark appeared on the stone. Cehmai waved

his hand.

"To your left," he said. "'t'here."

The overseer struck again, and the pick sank deep into the stone with a

sound like a footstep on gravel.

"Excellent," the overseer said. "Perfect."

Even the engineer seemed grudgingly pleased. Cehmai only wanted to get

out, into the light and hack to the city and his own bed. Even if they

left now, they wouldn't reach hlachi before nightfall. probably not

before the night candle hit its half mark.

On the way back up, the engineer started telling jokes. Cehmai allowed

himself to smile. There was no call to make things unpleasant even if

the pain in his head and spine were echoing his heartbeats.

When they reached the light and fresh air, the servants had laid out a

more satisfying meal-rice, fresh chickens killed here at the mine,

roasted nuts with lemon, cheeses melted until they could be spread over

their bread with a blade. Cehmai lowered himself into a chair of strung

cloth and sighed with relief. To the south, they could see the smoke of

the forges rising from Machi and blowing off to the east. A city

perpetually afire.

"When we get there," Cehmai said to the andat, "we'll be playing several

games of stones. You'll be the one losing."

The andat shrugged almost imperceptibly.

"It's what I am," it said. "You may as well blame water for being wet."

"And when it soaks my robes, I do," Cehmai said. The andat chuckled and

then was silent. Its wide face turned to him with something like

concern. Its brow was furrowed.

"The girl," it said.

"What about her?"

"It seems to me the next time she asks if you love her, you could say yes.

Cehmai felt his heart jump in his chest, startled as a bird. The andat's

expression didn't change; it might have been carved from stone. Idaan

wept in his memory, and she laughed, and she curled herself in his

bedclothes and asked silently not to be sent away. Love, he discovered,

could feel very much like sorrow.

"I suppose you're right," he said, and the andat smiled in what looked

like sympathy.

MAATI LAID HIS NOTES OUT ON THE WIDE TABLE AT THE BACK OF THE LIbrary's

main chamber. The distant throbbing of trumpet and drum wasn't so

distracting here as in his rooms. Three times on the walk here, his

sleeves heavy with paper and books, he'd been grabbed by some masked

reveler and kissed. Twice, bowls of sweet wine had been forced into his

hand. The palaces were a riot of dancing and song, and despite his best

intentions, the memory of those three kisses drew his attention. It

would be sweet to go out, to lose himself in that crowd, to find some

woman willing to dance with him, and to take comfort in her body and her

breath. It had been years since he had let himself be so young as that.

He turned himself to his puzzle. Danat, the man destined to be Khai

Machi, had seemed the most likely to have engineered the rumors of

Otah's return. Certainly he had gained the most. Kahn Machi, whose death

had already given Maati three kisses, was the other possibility. Until

he dug in. He had asked the servants and the slaves of each household

every question he could think of. No, none of them recalled any

consultations with a man who matched the assassin's description. No,

neither man had sent word or instruction since Maati's own arrival. He'd

asked their social enemies what they knew or guessed or speculated on.

Kahn Machi had been a weak-lunged man, pale of face and watery of eye.

He'd had a penchant for sleeping with servant girls, but hadn't even

gotten a child on one-likely because he was infertile. Danat was a bully

and a sneak, a man whose oaths meant nothing to him-and the killing of

noble, scholarly Kaiin showed that. Danat's triumph was the best of all

possible outcomes or else the worst.

Searching for conspiracy in court gossip was like looking for raindrops

in a thunderstorm. Everyone he spoke to seemed to have four or five

suggestions of what might have happened, and of those, each half

contradicted the other. By far, the most common assumption was that Otah

had been the essential villain in all of it.

Nlaati had diagrammed the relationships of Danat and Kaiin with each of

the high families-Kamau, Daikani, Radaani and a dozen more. Then with

the great trading houses, with mistresses and rumored mistresses and the

teahouses they liked best. At one point he'd even listed which horses

each preferred to ride. The sad truth was that despite all these facts,

all these words scribbled onto papers, referenced and checked, nothing

pointed to either man as the author of Biitrah's death, the attempt on

Maati's own life, or the slaughter of the assassin. He was either too

dimwitted to see the pattern before him, it was too well hidden, or he

was looking in the wrong place. Clearly neither man had been present in

the city to direct the last two attacks, and there seemed to be no

supporters in Machi who had managed the plans for them.

Nor was there any reason to attack him. Nlaati had been on the verge of

exposing Otah-kvo. That was in everyone's best interest, barring Otah's.

Maati closed his eyes, sighed, then opened them again, gathered up the

pages of his notes and laid them out again, as if seeing them in a

different pattern might spark something.

Drunken song burst from the side room to his left, and Baarath, li

brarian of Machi, stumbled in, grinning. His face was flushed, and he

smelled of wine and something stronger. He threw open his arms and

strode unevenly to Maati, embracing him like a brother.

"No one has ever loved these books as you and I have, Maati-kya,"

Baarath said. "The most glorious party of a generation. Wine flowing in

the gutters, and food and dancing, and I'll jump off a tower if we don't

see a crop of babes next spring that look nothing like their fathers.

And where do we go, you and I? Here."

Baarath turned and made a sweeping gesture that took in the books and

scrolls and codices, the shelves and alcoves and chests. He shook his

head and seemed for a moment on the verge of tears. Maati patted him on

the back and led him to a wooden bench at the side of the room. Baarath

sat back, his head against the stone, and smiled like a baby.

"I'm not as drunk as I look," Baarath said.

"I'm sure you aren't," Maati agreed.

Baarath pounded the board beside him and gestured for Maati to sit.

There was no graceful way to refuse, and at the moment, he could think

of no reason. Going back to stand, frustrated, over the table had no

appeal. He sat.

"What is bothering you, Maati-kya? You're still searching for some way

to keep the upstart alive?"

"Is that an option? I don't see Danat-cha letting him walk free. No, I

suppose I'm just hoping to see him killed for the right reasons. Except

... I don't know. I can't find anyone else with reason to do the things

that have been done."

"Perhaps there's more than one thing going on then?" Baarath suggested.

Maati took a pose of surrender.

"I can't comprehend one. The gods will have to lead me by the hand if

there's two. Can you think of any other reason to kill Biitrah? The man

seems to have moved through the world without making an enemy."

"He was the best of us," Baarath agreed and wiped his eyes with the end

of his sleeve. "He was a good man."

"So it had to be one of his brothers. Gods, I wish the assassin hadn't

been killed. He could have told us if there was a connection between

Biitrah and what happened to me. Then at least I'd know if I were

solving one puzzle or two."

"Doesn't have to," Baarath said.

Maati took a pose that asked for clarification. Baarath rolled his eyes

and took on an expression of superiority that Maati had seen beneath his

politeness for weeks now.

"It doesn't have to be one of his brothers," Baarath said. "You say it's

not the upstart. Fine, that's what you choose. But then you say you

can't find anything that I)anat or Kaiin's done that makes you think

they've done it. And why would they hide it, anyway? It's not shameful

for them to kill their brother."

"But no one else has a reason," Maati said.

"No one? Or only no one you've found?"

"If it isn't about the succession, I can't find any call to kill

Biitrah. If it isn't about my search for Otah, I can't think of any

reason to want me dead. The only killing that makes sense at all was

poking the assassin full of holes, and that only because he might have

answered my questions."

"Why couldn't it have been the succession?"

Maati snorted. It was difficult being friendly with Baarath when he was

sober. Now, with him half-maudlin, half-contemptuous, and reeking of

wine, it was worse. Maati's frustration peaked, and his voice, when he

spoke, was louder and angrier than he'd intended.

"Because Otah didn t, and Kaiin didn't, and Danat didn't, and there's no

one else who's looking to sit on the chair. Is there some fifth brother

I haven't been told about?"

Baarath raised his hands in a pose of a tutor posing an instructive

question to a pupil. The effect was undercut by the slight weaving of

his hands.

"What would happen if all three brothers died?"

"Otah would be Khai."

"Four. I meant four. What if they all die? What if none of them takes

the chair?"

"']'he utkhaiem would fight over it like very polite pit dogs, and

whichever one ended with the most blood on its muzzle would be elevated

as the new Khai."

"So someone else might benefit from this yet, you see? They would have

to hide it because having slaughtered the whole family of the previous

Khai wouldn't help their family prestige, seeing as all their heads

would be hanging from poles. But it would be about your precious

succession, and there would be someone besides the three ... four

brothers with reason to do the thing."

"Except that Danat's alive and about to be named Khai Machi, it's a

pretty story."

Baarath sneered and made a grand gesture at the world in general.

"What is there but pretty stories? What is history but the accumulation

of plausible speculation and successful lies? You're a scholar,

Maati-kya, you should enjoy them more."

Baarath chuckled drunkenly, and Maati rose to his feet. Outside,

something cracked with a report like a stone slab broken or a roof tile

dropped from a great height. A moment later, laughter followed it. Maati

leaned against the table, his arms folded and each hand tucked into the

opposite sleeve. Baarath shifted, lay back on the bench, and sighed.

"You don't think it's true," Maati said. "You don't think it's one of

the high families plotting to be Khai."

"Of course not," Baarath said. "It's an idiot plan. If you were to start

something like that, you'd need to be certain you'd win it, and that

would take more money and influence than any one family could gather.

Even the Radaani don't have that much gold, and they've got more than

the Khai."

"Then you think I'm chasing mist," Maati said.

"I think the upstart is behind all of it, and that you're too much in

awe of him to see it. Everyone knows he was your teacher when you were a

boy. You still think he's twice what you are. Who knows, maybe he is."

His anger gave Maati the illusion of calm, and a steadiness to his

voice. He took a pose of correction.

"That was rude, Baarath-cha. I'd thank you not to say it again."

"Oh, don't be ashamed of it," Baarath said. "There are any number of

boys who have those sorts of little infatuations with-"

Maati's body lifted itself, sliding with an elegance and grace he didn't

know he posessed. His palm moved out by its own accord and slapped

Baarath's jaw hard enough to snap the man's head to the side. He put a

hand on Baarath's chest, pinning him firmly to the bench. Baarath yelped

in surprise and Maati saw the shock and fear in his face. Maati kept his

voice calm.

"We aren't friends. Let's not be enemies. It would distract me, and you

may have perfect faith that it would destroy you. I am here on the

Dai-kvo's work, and no matter who becomes Khai Mach], he'll have need of

the poets. Standing beside that, one too-clever librarian can't count

for much."

Outrage shone in Baarath's eyes as he pushed Maati's hand away. Maati

stepped back, allowing him to rise. The librarian pulled his disarrayed

robes back into place, his features darkening. Maati's rage began to

falter, but he kept his chin held high.

"You're a bully, Maati-cha," Baarath said, then he took a pose of

farewell and marched proudly out of the library. His library. Maati

heard the door slam closed and felt himself deflate.

It galled him, but he knew he would have to apologize later. He should

never have struck the man. If he had borne the insults and insinuations,

he could have forced contrition from Baarath, but he hadn't.

He looked at his scattered notes. Perhaps he was a bully. Perhaps there

was nothing to be found in all this. After all, Otah would die

regardless. Danat would take his father's place, and Maati would go back

to the Dai-kvo. He would even be able to claim a measure of success.

Otah was starving to death in the high air above Machi thanks to him,

after all. And what was that if not victory? One small mystery left

unsolved could hardly matter in the end.

He pulled his papers together, stacking them, folding them, tucking the

packet away into his sleeve. "There was nothing to be done here. He was

tired and frustrated, ashamed of himself and in despair. There was a

city of wine and distraction that would welcome him with open arms and

delighted smiles.

He remembered Heshai-kvo-the poet of Saraykeht, the controller of

Removing-the-Part-That-Continues who they'd called Seedless. He

remembered his teacher's pilgrimages to the soft quarter with its drugs

and gambling, its wine and whores. Heshai had felt this, or something

like it; Maati knew he had.

He pulled the brown leather-bound book from his sleeve, where it always

waited. He opened it and read Heshai's careful, beautiful handwriting.

The chronicle and examination of his errors in binding the andat. He

recalled Seedless' last words. He's forgiven you.

Maati turned back, his limbs heavy with exhaustion and dread. He put the

hook back into his sleeve and pulled out his notes. He rearranged them

on the table. He began again, and the night stretched out endlessly

before him.

THE PALACES WERE DRUNKEN AND DIZZY AND LOST IN THE RELIEF THAT comes

when a people believe that the worst is over. It was a celebration of

fratricide, but of all the dancers, the drinkers, the declaimers of

small verse, only Idaan seemed to remember that fact. She played her

part, of course. She appeared in all the circles of which she had been

part back before she'd entered this darkness. She drank wine and tea,

she accepted the congratulations of the high families on her joining

with the house of Vaunyogi. She blushed at the ribald comments made

about her and Adrah, or else replied with lewder quips.

She played the part. The only sign was that she was more elaborate when

she painted her face. Even if people noticed, what would they think but

that the colors on her eyelids and the plum-dark rouge on her lips were

a part of her celebration. Only she knew how badly she needed the mask.

The night candle was just past its middle mark when they broke away, she

and Adrah with their arms around each other as if they were lovers. No

one they saw had any question what they were planning, and no one would

object. Half of the city had paired off already and slunk away to find

an empty bed. It was the night for it. They laughed and stumbled toward

the high palaces-her father's.

Once, when they were hidden behind a high row of hedges and it wasn't a

performance for anyone, Adrah kissed her. He smelled of wine and the

warm, musky scent of a young man's skin. Idaan kissed him back, and for

that moment-that long silent, sensual moment-she meant it. "Then he

pulled away and smiled, and she hated him again.

The celebrations in the halls and galleries of the Khai's palace were

the nearest to exhaustion-everyone from the highest family of the

utkhaiem to the lowest firekeeper had dressed in their finest robes and

set out to stain them with something. The days of revelry had taken

their toll, and with the night half-passed, the wildest celebrations

were over. Music and song still played, people still danced and talked,

drew one another away into alcoves and corners. Old men talked gravely

of who would benefit from Danat's survival and promotion. But the sense

was growing that the time was drawing near when the city would catch its

breath and rest a while.

She and Adrah made their way through to the private wings of the palace,

where only servants and slaves and the wives of the Khai moved freely.

They made no secret of their presence. There was no need. Idaan led the

way up a series of wide, sweeping staircases to apartments on the south

side of the palace. A servant-an old man with gray hair, a limp, and a

rosy smile-greeted them, and Idaan instructed him that they were not to

be disturbed for any reason. The old man took a solemn expression and a

pose of acknowledgment, but there was merriment in his eyes. Idaan let

him believe what she, after all, intended him to. Adrah opened the great

wooden doors, and he also closed them behind her.

"They aren't the best rooms, are they?" Adrah said.

"They'll do," Idaan said, and went to the windows. She pulled open the

shutters. The great tower, Otah Machi's prison, stood like a dark line

inked in the air. Adrah moved to stand beside her.

"One of us should have gone with them," she said. "If the upstart's

found safely in his cell come morning . . ."

"He won't be," Adrah said. "Father's mercenaries are competent men. He

wouldn't have hired them for this if he hadn't been sure of them."

"I don't like using hired men," Idaan said. "If we can buy them, so can

anyone.

"They're armsmen, not whores," Adrah said. "They've taken a contract,

and they'll see it through. It's how they survive."

There were five lanterns, from small glass candleboxes to an oil lamp

with a wick as wide as her thumb and heavy enough to require both of

them to move it. They pulled them all as near the open window as they

could, and Adrah lit them while Idaan pulled the thin silks from under

her robes. The richest dyes in the world had given these their colorone

blue, the other red. Idaan hung the blue over the window's frame, and

then peered out, squinting into the night for the signal. And there,

perhaps half a hand from the top of the tower, shone the answering

light. Idaan turned away.

With all the light gathered at the window, the rooms were cast into

darkness. Adrah had pulled a hooded cloak over his robes. Idaan

remembered again the feeling of hanging over the void, feeling the wind

tugging at her. This wasn't so different, except that the prospect of

her own death had seemed somehow cleaner.

"He would want it," Idaan said. "If he knew that we'd planned this, he

would allow it. You know that."

"Yes, Idaan-kya. I know."

"To live so weak. It disgraces him. It makes him seem less before the

court. It's not a fit ending for a Khai."

Adrah drew a thin, blackened blade. It looked no wider than a finger,

and not much longer. Adrah sighed and squared his shoulders. Idaan felt

her stomach rise to her throat.

"I want to go with you," she said.

"We discussed this, Idaan-kya. You stay in case someone comes. You have

to convince them that I'm still in here with you."

"They won't come. They've no reason to. And he's my father."

"More reason that you should stay."

Idaan moved to him, touching his arm like a beggar asking alms. She felt

herself shaking and loathed the weakness, but she could not stop it.

Adrah's eyes were as still and empty as pebbles. She remembered Danat,

how he had looked when he arrived from the south. She had thought he was

ill, but it had been this. He had become a killer, a murderer of the

people he had once respected and loved. That he still respected and

loved. Adrah had those eyes now, the look of near-nausea. He smiled, and

she saw the determination. There were no words that would stop him now.

The stone had been dropped, and not all the wishing in the world could

call it back into her hand.

"I love you, Idaan-kya," Adrah said, his voice as cool as a gravestone.

"I have always loved you. From the first time I kissed you. Even when

you have hurt me, and you have hurt me worse than anyone alive, I have

only ever loved you."

He was lying. He was saying it as she'd said that her father would

welcome death, because he needed it to be true. And she found that she

needed that as well. She stepped back and took a pose of gratitude.

Adrah walked to the door, turned, nodded to her, and was gone. Idaan sat

in the darkness and looked at nothing, her arms wrapped around herself.

The night seemed unreal: absurd and undeniable at the same time, a

terrible dream from which she might wake to find herself whole again.

The weight of it was like a hand pressing down on her head.

There was time. She could call for armsmen. She could call for Danat.

She could go and stop the blade with her own body. She sat silent,

trying not to breathe. She remembered the ceremony of her tenth summer,

the year after her mother's death. Her father had taken her to sit at

his side during all that day's ritual. She had hated it, bored by the

petitions and formality until tears ran down her cheeks. She re membered

a meal with a representative from some Westlands warden where her father

had forced her to sit on a hard wooden chair and swallow a cold bean

soup that made her gag rather than seem ungracious to the Westlander for

his food.

She fought to remember a smile, an embrace. She wanted a moment in the

long years of her childhood to which she could point and say here is how

I know he loved me. The blue silk stirred in the breeze. The lantern

flames flickered, dimmed, and rose again. It must have happened. For him

to be so desperate for her happiness now, there must have been some

sign, some indication.

She found herself rocking rapidly back and forth. When a sound came from

the door, she jumped up, panicked, looking around for some excuse to

explain Adrah's absence. When he himself came in, she could see in his

eyes that it was over.

Adrah pulled off the cloak, letting it pool around his ankles. His

bright robes seemed incongruous as a butterfly in a butcher's shop. His

face was stone.

"You've done it," Idaan said, and two full breaths later, he nodded.

Something as much release as despair sank into her. She could feel her

body made heavy by it.

She walked to him, pulled the blade and its soft black leather sheath

from his belt, and let them drop to the floor. Adrah didn't try to stop her.

"Nothing we ever do will be so bad as this," she said. "This now is the

worst it will ever be. Everything will be better than this."

"He never woke," Adrah said. "The drugs that let him sleep ... He never

woke."

"That's good."

A slow, mad grin bloomed on his face, stretching until the blood left

his lips. There was a hardness in his eyes and a heat. It looked like

fury or possession. He took her shoulders in his hands and pulled her

near him. Their kiss was a gentle violence. For a moment, she thought he

meant to open her robes, to drag her back to the bed in a sad parody of

what they were expected to be doing. She pressed a palm to his sex and

was surprised to find that he was not aroused. Slowly, with perfect

control and a grip that bruised her, Adrah brought her away from him.

"I did this thing for you," he said. "I did this for you. Do you

understand that?"

"I do."

"Never ask me for anything again," he said and released her, turning

away. "From now until you die, you are in debt to me, and I owe you

nothing."

"For the favor of killing my father?" she asked, unable to keep the edge

from her voice.

"For what I have sacrificed to you," he said without looking back. Idaan

felt her face flush, her hands ball into fists. She heard him groan from

the next room, heard his robes shushing against the stone floor. The bed

creaked.

A lifetime, married to him. There wouldn't be a moment in the years that

followed that would not be poisoned. He would never forgive her, and she

would never fail to hate him. They would go to their graves, each with

teeth sunk in the other's neck.

They were perfect for each other.

Idaan walked silently to the window, took down the blue silk and put up

the red.

THE ARMSMEN GAVE HIM ENOUGH WATER TO LIVE, THOUGH NOT SO MUCH AS to

slake his thirst. Almost enough food to live as well, though not quite.

He had no clothing but the rags he'd worn when he'd come back to Machi

and the cloak that Maati had brought. When dawn was coming near and the

previous day's heat had gone from the tower, he would be huddling in

that cloth. Through the day, sun heated the great tower, and that heat

rose. And as it rose, it grew. In his stone cage, Otah lay sweating as

if he'd been working at hard labor, his throat dry and his head pounding.

The towers of Machi, Otah had decided, were the stupidest buildings in

the world. Too cold in winter, too hot in summer, unpleasant to use,

exhausting to climb. They existed only to show that they could exist.

More and more of the time, his mind was in disarray; hunger and boredom,

the stifling heat and the growing presentiment of his own death

conspired to change the nature of time. Otah felt outside it all, apart

from the world and adrift. He had always been in this room; the memories

from before were like stories he'd heard told. He would always be in

this room unless he wriggled out the window and into the cool, open air.

Twice already he had dreamed that he'd leapt from the tower. Both times,

he woke in a panic. It was that as much as anything that kept him from

taking the one control left to him. When despair washed through him, he

remembered the dream of falling, with its shrill regret. He didn't want

to die. His ribs were showing, he was almost nauseated with thirst, his

mind would not slow down or be quiet. He was going to be put to death,

and he did not want to die.

The thought that his suffering saved Kiyan had ceased to comfort him.

Part of him was glad that he had not known how wretched his father's

treatment of him would be. He might have faltered. At least now he could

not run. He would lose-he had lost, and badly-but he could not run. Mai

sat on her chair-the tall, thin one with legs of woven cane that she'd

had in their island hut. When she spoke, it was in the soft liquid

sounds of her native language and too fast for Otah to follow. He

struggled, but when he croaked out that he couldn't understand her, his

own voice woke him until he drifted away again into nothing, troubled

only by the conviction that he could hear rats chewing through the stone.

The shriek woke him completely. He sat upright, his arms trembling. The

room was real again, unoccupied by visions. Outside the great door, he

heard someone shout, and then something heavy pounded once against the

door, shaking it visibly. Otah rose. There were voices-new ones. After

so many days, he knew the armsmen by their rhythms and the timbre of

their murmurs. The throats that made the sounds he heard now were

unfamiliar. He walked to the door and leaned against it, pressing his

ear to the hairline crack between the wood and its stone frame. One

voice rose above the others, its tone commanding. Otah made out the word

"chains."

The voices went away again for so long Otah began to suspect he'd

imagined it all. The scrape of the bar being lifted from the door

startled him. He stepped hack, fear and relief coming together in his

heart. This might be the end. He knew his brother had returned; this

could be his death come for him. But at least it was an end to his time

in this cell. He tried to hold himself with some dignity as the door

swung open. The torches were so bright that Otah could hardly see.

"Good evening, Otah-cha," a man's voice said. "I hope you're well enough

to move. I'm afraid we're in a bit of a hurry."

"Who are you?" Otah asked. His own voice sounded rough. Squinting, he

could make out perhaps ten men in black leather armor. They had blades

drawn. The armsmen lay in a pile against the far wall, stacked like

goods in a warehouse, a black pool of blood surrounding them. The smell

of them wasn't rotten, not yet, but it was disturbingcoppery and

intimate. They had only been dead for minutes. If all of them were dead.

"We're the men who've come to take you out of here," the commander said.

He was the one actually standing in the doorway. He had the long face of

a man of the winter cities, but a westlander's flowing hair. Otah moved

forward and took a pose of gratitude that seemed to amuse him.

"Can you walk?" he asked as Utah came out into the larger room. The

signs of struggle were everywhere-spilled wine, overturned chairs, blood

on the walls. The armsmen had been taken by surprise. Utah put a hand

against the wall to steady himself. The stone felt warm as flesh.

"I'll do what I have to," Otah said.

"That's admirable," the commander said, "but I'm more curious about what

you can do. I've suffered long confinement myself a time or two, and I

know what it does. We can't take the easy way down. We've got to walk.

If you can do this, that's all to the good. If you can't, we're prepared

to carry you, but I need to have you out of the city quickly."

"I don't understand. Did Maati send you?"

"There's better places to discuss this, Otah-cha. We can't go down by

the chains. Even if there weren't more armsmen waiting there, we've just

broken them. Can you walk down the tower?"

A memory of the endlessly turning stairs and the ghost of pain in his

knees and legs. Otah felt a stab of shame, but pulled himself up and

shook his head.

"I don't believe I can," he said. The commander nodded and two of his

men pulled lengths of wood from their backs and fitted them together in

a cripple's litter. There was a small seat for Otah, canted against the

slope of the stairway, and the poles were set one longer than the other

to fit the tight curve. It would have been useless in any other

situation, but for this task it was perfect. As one of the men helped

Otah take his place on it, he wondered if the device had been built for

this moment, or if things like it existed in service of these towers.

The largest of the men spat on his hands and gripped the carrying poles

that would start down the stairs and bear most of Otah's weight. One of

his fellows took the other end, and Otah lurched up.

They began their descent, Otah with his back to the center of the spiral

staircase. He watched the stone of the wall curl up from below. The men

grunted and cursed, but they moved quickly. The man on the higher poles

stumbled once, and the one below shouted angrily back at him.

The journey seemed to last forever-stone and darkness, the smell of

sweat and lantern oil. Otah's knees bumped against the wall before him,

his head against the wall behind. When they reached the halfway point,

another huge man was waiting to take over the worst of the carrying.

Otah felt his shame return. He tried to protest, but the commander put a

strong, hard hand on his shoulder and kept him in the chair.

"You chose right the first time," the commander said.

The second half of the journey down was less terrible. Otah's mind was

beginning to clear, and a savage hope was lifting him. He was being

saved. He couldn't think who or why, but he was delivered from his cell.

He thought of the armsmen new-slaughtered at the tower's height, and

recalled Kiyan's words. How do you expect to protect me and my house?

They could all be killed, his jailers and his rescuers alike. All in the

name of tradition.

He could tell when they reached the level of the street-the walls had

grown so thick there was almost no room for them to walk, but thin

windows showed glimmers of light, and drunken, disjointed music filled

the air. At the base of the stair, his carriers lowered Otah to the

ground and took his arms over their shoulders as if he were drunk or

sick. The commander squeezed to the front of the party. Despite his

frown, Otah sensed the man was enjoying himself immensely.

They moved quickly and quietly through mare-like passages and out at

last into an alley at the foot of the tower. A covered cart was waiting,

two horses whickering restlessly. The commander made a sign, and the two

bearers lifted Otah into the back of the cart. The commander and two of

the men climbed in after, and the driver started the horses. Shod hooves

rapped the stone, and the cart lurched and bumped. The commander pulled

the back cloth closed and tied it, but loose enough he could peer out

the seam. The lantern was extinguished, and the scent of its dying smoke

filled the cart for a moment and was gone.

"What's happening out there?" Otah asked.

"Nothing," the commander said. "And best we keep it that way. No talking."

In silence and darkness, they continued. Otah felt lightheaded. The cart

turned twice to the left and then again to the right. The driver was

hailed and replied, but they never stopped. A breeze fluttered the thick

cloth of the cover, and when it paused, Otah heard the sound of water;

they were on the bridge heading south. He was free. He grinned, and then

as the implications of his freedom unfolded themselves in his mind, his

relief faltered.

"Forgive me. I don't know your name. I'm sorry. I can't do this."

The commander shifted. It was nearly black in the cart, so Otah couldn't

see the man's face, but he imagined incredulity on the long features.

"I went to Machi to protect someone-a woman. If I vanish, they'll still

have reason to suspect her. My brother might kill her on the chance that

she's involved with this. I can't let that happen. I'm sorry, but we

have to turn hack."

"You love her that much?" the commander asked.

"This isn't her fault. It's mine."

"All this is your fault, eh? You have a lot to answer for." There was

amusement in the man's voice. Otah felt himself smile.

"Well, perhaps not all my fault. But I can't let her be hurt. This is

the price of it, and I'll pay it if I have to."

They were all silent for a long moment, then the commander sighed.

"You're an honorable man, Otah Machi. I want you to know I respect that.

Boys. Chain him and gag him. I don't want him calling out."

They were on him in an instant, pushing him hard onto the rough wood of

the cart. Someone's knee drove in between his shoulder blades; invisible

hands bent his arms backwards. When he opened his mouth to scream, a wad

of heavy cloth was shoved in so deeply he gagged. A leather strap

followed, keeping it in place. He didn't know when his legs were bound,

but in fewer than twenty breaths, he was immobile-his arms chained

painfully behind him at his wrists and elbows, his mouth stuffed until

it was hard to breathe. The knee moved to the small of his back, digging

into his spine with every shift of the cart. He tried once to move, and

the pressure from above increased. He tried again, and the man cursed

him and rapped his head with something hard.

"I said no talking," the commander murmured, and returned to peering out

the opening in the hack cloth. Otah shifted, snarling in impotent rage

that none of these men seemed to see or recognize. The cart moved off

through the night. He could feel it when they moved from the paving of

the main road to a dirt track; he could hear the high grass hushing

against the wheels. They were taking him nowhere, and he couldn't think why.

He guessed it was almost three hands before the first light started to

come. Dawn was still nothing more than a lighter kind of darkness, the

commander's feet-the only part of the man Otah could see without lifting

his head-were a dim form of shadow within shadow. It was something. Otah

heard the trill of a daymartin, and then a rough rattling and the sound

of water. A bridge over some small river. When the cart lurched back to

ground, the commander turned.

"Have him stop," he said, and then a moment later, "I said stop the

cart. Do it."

One of the other two-the one who wasn't kneeling on Otah- shifted and

spoke to the driver. The jouncing slowed and stopped.

"I thought I heard something out there. In the trees on the left. Baat.

Go check. If you see anything at all get back fast."

The pressure on Otah's back eased and one of the men clambered out. Otah

turned over and no one tried to stop him. There was more light now. He

could make out the grim set of the commander's features, the unease in

the one remaining armsman.

"Well, this is interesting," the commander said.

"What's out there," the other man asked, his blade drawn. The commander

looked out the slit of cloth and motioned for the armsman to pass over

his sword. He did, and the commander took it, holding it with the ease

of long familiarity.

"It may be nothing," he said. "Were you with me when I was working for

the Warden of Elleais?"

"I'd just signed on then," the armsman said.

"You've always been a good fighter, Lachmi. I want you to know I respect

that."

With the speed of a snake, the commander's wrist flickered, and the

armsman fell hack in the cart, blood flowing from his opened neck. Otah

tried to push himself away as the commander turned and drove the sword

into the armsman's chest. He dropped the blade then, letting it fall to

the cart's floor, and took a pose of regret to the dying man.

"But," the commander said, "you should never have cheated me at tiles.

That was stupid."

The commander stepped over the body and spoke to the driver. He spoke

clearly enough for Otah to hear.

"Is it done?"

The driver said something.

"Good," the commander replied, and came hack. He flipped Otah onto his

belly with casual disregard, and Otah felt his bonds begin to loosen.

"All apologies, Otah-cha," the commander said. "But there's a lesson you

can take from all this: just because someone's bought a mercenary

captain, it doesn't mean his commanders aren't still for sale. Now I

will need your robes, such as they are."

Otah pulled the leather strap from around his head and spat out the

cloth, retching as he did so. Before he could speak, the commander had

climbed out of the cart, and Otah was left to follow.

They had stopped at a clearing by a river, surrounded by white oaks. The

bridge was old wood and looked almost too decrepit to cross. Six men

with gray robes and hunting bows were walking toward them from the

trees, two of them dragging the arrow-riddled body of the armsman the

commander had sent out. Two others carried a litter with what was

clearly another dead man-thin and naked. The commander took a pose of

welcome, and the first archer returned it. Otah stumbled forward,

rubbing his wrists. The archers were all smiling, pleased with

themselves. When he came close enough, Otah saw the second corpse was on

its back, and a wide swath of intricate black ink stained its breast.

The first half of an east island marriage mark. A tattoo like his own.

"That's why we'll need your robes, Otah-cha," the commander said. "This

poor bastard will have been in the water for a while before he reaches

the main channel of the river. But the closer he seems to you, the less

people will bother looking at him. I'll see whether I can find something

for you to wear after, but you might consider sponging off in the brook

there first. No offense, but you've been a while without a bath."

"Who is he?" Otah asked.

The commander shrugged.

"Nobody, now."

He clapped Otah on the shoulder and turned back toward the cart. The

archers were pitching the corpses of the two armsmen into the water.

Otah saw arrows rising from the river like reeds. The driver was coming

forward now, his thumbs stuck in his belt. He was a hairy man, his full

heard streaked with gray. He smiled at Otah and took a pose of welcome.

"I don't understand," Otah said. "What's happening?"

"We don't understand either, Itani-cha. Not precisely. We're only sure

that it's something terrible," the carter said, and Otah's mouth dropped

open. He spoke with the voice of Amiit Foss, his overseer in House

Siyanti. Amiit grinned beneath his heard. "And we're sure that it isn't

happening to you."

The first few breaths after she woke were like rising new horn. She

didn't know who or where she was, she had no thought of the night before

or the day ahead. There was only sensation-the warmth of the body beside

her, the crisp softness of the bedclothes, the netting above the bed

glowing in the captured light of dawn, the scent of black tea brought in

by a servant with cat-quiet footsteps. She sat up, almost smiling until

memory rushed in on her like a flood of black water. Idaan rose and

pulled on her robes. Adrah stirred and moaned.

"You should go," she said, lifting the black iron teapot. "You're

expected to go on a hunt today."

Adrah sat up, scratching his back and yawning. His hair stuck out in all

directions. He looked older than he had the day before, or perhaps it

was only how she felt. She poured a howl of tea for him as well.

"Have they found him?" Adrah asked.

"I haven't heard the screams or lamentations yet, so I'd assume not."

She held out the porcelain bowl. It was thin enough to see through and

hot enough to burn her fingertips, but Idaan didn't try to reduce the

pain. When Adrah took it from her, he drank from it straight, though she

knew it must have scalded. Perhaps what they'd done had numbed them.

"And You, Idaan-kya?"

"I'm going to the baths. I'll join you after."

Adrah drank the last of the tea, grimaced as if it was distilled wine,

and took a pose of leave-taking which Idaan returned. When he was gone,

she took herself to the women's quarters and the baths. She hardly had

time to wash her hair before the cry went up. The Khai Nfachi was dead.

Killed horribly in his chambers. Idaan dried herself with a cloth and

strode out to meet her brother. She was halfway there before she

realized her face was bare; she hadn't put on her paints. She was

surprised that she felt no need for them now.

Danat was pacing the great hall. The high marble archways echoed with

the sound of his boots. There was blood on his sleeve, and his face was

empty. When Idaan caught sight of him, she raised her chin but took no

formal pose. Danat stopped. The room was silent.

"You've heard," he said. There was no question to it.

""Tell me anyway."

"Otah has killed our father," Danat said.

"'t'hen yes. I've heard."

Danat resumed his pacing. His hands worried each other, as if he were

trying to pluck honey off them. Idaan didn't move.