It might have been his imagination-he knew from experience that he was
prone to see his own fears and hopes in other people instead of what was
truly there-but Maati thought there might have been a flicker of
approval on the old man's face.
"You will report to me," the Khai said. "When you find him, you will
come to me before anyone else, and I will send word to the Dai-kvo."
"As you command, most high," Maati lied. He had said that his loyalty
lay with the Dal-hvo, but there was no advantage he could see to
explaining all that meant here and now.
The meeting continued for a short time. The Khai seemed as exhausted by
it as Maati himself was. Afterward, a servant girl led him to his
apartments within the palaces. Night was already falling as he closed
the door, truly alone for the first time in weeks. The journey from his
home in the Dai-kvo's village wasn't the half-season's trek he would
have had from Saraykeht, but it was enough, and Maati didn't enjoy the
constant companionship of strangers on the road.
A fire had been lit in the grate, and warm tea and cakes of honeyed
almonds waited for him at a lacquered table. He lowered himself into the
chair, rested his feet, and closed his eyes. Being here, in this place,
had a sense of unreality to it. To have been entrusted with anything of
importance was a surprise after his loss of status. The thought stung,
but he forced himself to turn in toward it. He had lost a great deal of
the Dai-kvo's trust between his failure in Saraykeht and his refusal to
disavow Liat, the girl who had once loved Otah-kvo but left both him and
the fallen city to be with Maati, when it became clear she was bearing
his child. If there had been time between the two, perhaps it might have
been different. One scandal on the heels of the other, though, had been
too much. Or so he told himself. It was what he wanted to believe.
A scratch at the door roused him from his bitter reminiscences. He
straightened his robes and ran a hand through his hair before he spoke.
"Come in."
The door slid open and a young man of perhaps twenty summers wearing the
brown robes of a poet stepped in and took a pose of greeting. Maati
returned it as he considered Cehmai Tyan, poet of Mach]. The broad
shoulders, the open face. Here, Maati thought, is what I should have
been. A talented boy poet who studied under a master while young enough
to have his mind molded to the right shape. And when the time came, he
had taken that burden on himself for the sake of his city. As I should
have done.
"I only just heard you'd arrived," Cehmai Tyan said. "I left orders at
the main road, but apparently they don't think as much of me as they
pretend."
There was a light humor in his voice and manner. As if this were a game,
as if he were a person whom anyone in Machi-or in the worldcould truly
treat with less than total respect. He held the power to soften stone-it
was the concept, the essential idea, that Manat I)oru had translated
into a human form all those generations ago. This widefaced, handsome
boy could collapse every bridge, level every mountain. The great towers
of Machi could turn to a river of stone, fast-flowing and dense as
quicksilver, which would lay the city to ruin at his order. And he made
light of being ignored as if he were junior clerk in some harbormaster's
house. Maati couldn't tell if it was an affectation or if the poet was
really so utterly naive.
"The Khai left orders as well," Maati said.
"Ah, well. Nothing to be done about that, then. I trust everything is
acceptable with your apartments?"
"I ... I really don't know. I haven't really looked around yet. 'Ibo
busy sitting on something that doesn't move, I suppose. I close my eyes,
and I feel like I'm still jouncing around on the back of a cart."
The young poet laughed, a warm sound that seemed full of selfconfidence
and summer light. Maati felt himself smiling thinly and mentally
reproved himself for being ungracious. Cehmai dropped onto a cushion
beside the fire, legs crossed under him.
"I wanted to speak with you before we started working in the morning,"
Cehmai said. "The man who guards the library is ... he's a good man, but
he's protective of the place. I think he looks on it as his trust to the
ages."
"Like a poet," Maati said.
Cehmai grinned. "I suppose so. Only he'd have made a terrible poet. He's
puffed himself three times larger than anyone else just by having the
keys to a building full of papers in languages only half a dozen people
in the city can read. If he'd ever been given something important to do,
he'd have popped like a tick. Anyway, I thought it might ease things if
I came along with you for the first few days. Once Baarath is used to
you, I expect he'll be fine. It's that first negotiation that's tricky."
Maati took a pose that offered gratitude, but was also a refusal.
"There's no call to take you from your duties," he said. "I expect the
order of the Khai will suffice."
"I wouldn't only be doing it as a favor to you, Maati-kvo," Cehmai said.
The honorific took Maati by surprise, but the young poet didn't seem to
notice his reaction. "Baarath is a friend of mine, and sometimes you
have to protect your friends from themselves. You know?"
Maati took a pose that was an agreement and looked into the flames.
Sometimes men could be their own worst enemies. That was truth. He
remembered the last time he had seen Otah-kvo. It had been the night
Maati had admitted what Liat had become to him and what he himself was
to her. His old friend's eyes had gone hard as glass. Heshai-kvo, the
poet of Saraykeht, had died just after that, and Maati and Liat had left
the city together without seeing Otah-kvo again.
The betrayal in those dark eyes haunted him. He wondered how much the
anger had festered in his old teacher over the years. It might have
grown to hatred by now, and Maati had come to hunt him down. The fire
danced over the coal, flames turning the black to gray, the stone to
powder. He realized that the boy poet had been speaking, and that the
words had escaped him entirely. Maati took a pose of apology.
"My mind wandered. You were saying?"
"I offered to come by at first light," Cehmai said. "I can show you
where the good teahouses are, and there's a streetcart that sells the
best hot eggs and rice in the city. Then, perhaps, we can brave the
library?"
"That sounds fine. Thank you. But now I think I'd best unpack my things
and get some rest. You'll excuse me."
Cehmai bounced up in a pose of apology, realizing for the first time
that his presence might not be totally welcome, and Maati waved it away.
They made the ritual farewells, and when the door closed, Maati sighed
and rose. He had few things: thick robes he had bought for the journey
north, a few hooks including the small leatherbound volume of his dead