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 p
ass.
"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 hi
m 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
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