down to a little teahouse by the river that had sweetcakes that they
cooked in oil and covered with sugar so fine it hung in the air if you
blew on it."
"You're lying to me," Cehmai said.
"No," the andat said. "No, it's truth. It made the Khai quite angry
sometimes, but what was he to do?"
The singing slave smiled and took a pose of greeting to them that Cehmai
returned.
"We could stop by the spring gardens that Idaan frequents. If she were
free she might be persuaded to join us," the andat said.
"And why would the daughter of the Khai tempt me more than sweetcakes?"
"She's well-read and quick in her mind," the andat said, as if the
question had been genuine. "You find her pleasant to look at, I know.
And her demeanor is often just slightly inappropriate. If memory serves,
that might outweigh even sweetcakes."
Cehmai shifted his weight from foot to foot, then, with a commanding
gesture, stopped a servant boy. The boy, seeing who he was, fell into a
pose of greeting so formal it approached obeisance.
"I need you to carry a message for one. To the Master of'I'ides."
"Yes, Cehmai-cha," the boy said.
"Tell him I have had a bout with the andat this morning, and find myself
too fatigued to conduct business. And tell him that I will reach him on
the morrow if I feel well enough."
The poet fished through his sleeves, pulled out his money pouch and took
out a length of silver. The boy's eyes widened, and his small hand
reached out toward it. Cehmai drew it back, and the boy's dark eyes
fixed on his.
"If he asks," Cehmai said, "you tell him I looked quite ill."
The boy nodded vigorously, and Cehmai pressed the silver length into his
palm. Whatever errand the boy had been on was forgotten. He vanished
into the austere gloom of the palaces.
"You're corrupting me," Cehmai said as he turned away.
"Constant struggle is the price of power," the andat said, its voice
utterly devoid of humor. "It must be a terrible burden for you. Now
let's see if we can find the girl and those sweetcakes."
"They tell me you knew my son," the Khai Machi said. The grayness of his
skin and yellow in his long, hound hair were signs of something more
than the ravages of age. The Dai-kvo was of the same generation, but
Maati saw none of his vigor and strength here. The sick man took a pose
of command. "Tell me of him."
Maati stared down at the woven reed mat on which he knelt and fought to
push away the weariness of his travels. It had been days since he had
bathed, his robes were not fresh, and his mind was uneasy. But he was
here, called to this meeting or possibly this confrontation, even before
his bags had been unpacked. He could feel the attention of the servants
of the Khai-there were perhaps a dozen in the room. Some slaves, others
attendants from among the highest ranks of the utkhaiem. The audience
might be called private, but it was too well attended for Maati's
comfort. The choice was not his. He took the bowl of heated wine he had
been given, sipped it, and spoke.
"Otah-kvo and I met at the school, most high. He already wore the black
robes awarded to those who had passed the first test when I met him. I
... I was the occasion of his passing the second."
The Khai Machi nodded. It was an almost inhumanly graceful movement,
like a bird or some finely wrought mechanism. Maati took it as a sign
that he should continue.
"He came to me after that. He ... he taught me things about the school
and about myself. He was, I think, the best teacher I have known. I
doubt I would have been chosen to study with the Dai-kvo if it hadn't
been for him. But then he refused the chance to become a poet."
"And the brand," the Khai said. "He refused the brand. Perhaps he had
ambitions even then."
He was a boy, and angry, Maati thought. He had beaten Tahi-kvo and
Milah-kvo on his own terms. He'd refused their honors. Of course he
didn't accept disgrace.
The utkhaiem high enough to express an opinion nodded among themselves
as if a decision made in heat by a boy not yet twelve might explain a
murder two decades later. Maati let it pass.
"I met him again in Saraykeht," Maati said. "I had gone there to study
under Heshai-kvo and the andat Removing-the-Part-ThatContinues. Otah-kvo
was living under an assumed name at the time, working as a laborer on
the docks."
"And you recognized him?"
"I did," Maati said.
"And yet you did not denounce him?" The old man's voice wasn't angry.
Maati had expected anger. Outrage, perhaps. What he heard instead was
gentler and more penetrating. When he looked up, the redrimmed eyes were
very much like Otah-kvo's. Even if he had not known before, those eyes
would have told him that this man was Otah's father. He wondered briefly
what his own father's eyes had looked like and whether his resembled
them, then forced his mind back to the matter at hand.
"I did not, most high. I regarded him as my teacher, and ... and I
wished to understand the choices he had made. We became friends for a
time. Before the death of the poet took me from the city."
"And do you call him your teacher still? You call him Otah-kvo. That is
a title for a teacher, is it not?"
Maati blushed. He hadn't realized until then that he was doing it.
"An old habit, most high. I was sixteen when I last saw Otah-cha. I'm
thirty now. It has been almost half my life since I have spoken with
him. I think of him as a person I once knew who told me some things I
found of use at the time," Maati said, and sensing that the falsehood of
those words might be clear, he continued with some that were more nearly
true. "My loyalty is to the Dai-kvo."
"That is good," the Khai Machi said. "Tell me, then. How will you
conduct this examination of my city?"
"I am here to study the library of Machi," Maati said. "I will spend my
mornings there, most high. After midday and in the evenings I will move
through the city. I think ... I think that if Otah-kvo is here it will
not be difficult to find him."
The gray, thin lips smiled. Maati thought there was condescension in
them. Perhaps even pity. He felt a blush rise in his cheeks, but kept
his face still. He knew how he must appear to the Khai's weary eyes, but
he would not flinch and confirm the man's worst suspicions. He swallowed
once to loosen his throat.
"You have great faith in yourself," the Khai Machi said. "You come to my
city for the first time. You know nothing of its streets and tunnels,
little of its history, and you say that finding my missing son will be
easy for you."
"Rather, most high, I will make it easy for him to find me."