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
"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."