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."
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
flag
stone 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.