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