"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