A Betrayal in Winter

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.