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.
"If it is the upstart behind it all, it's a poor thing for Machi," the
older man said. "None of the trading houses would know him or trust him.
None of the families of the utkhaiem would have ties to him. Even if
he's simply never found, the new Khai will always he watching over his
shoulder. It isn't good to have an uncertain line in the Khai's chair.
The best thing that could happen for the city would be to find him and
put a knife through his belly. Him, and any children he's got meantime."
Otah smiled because it was what a courier of House Siyanti would do. The
younger man sniffed and sipped his bowl of tea. The woman shrugged, the
motion setting small waves across the water.
"It might do us well to have someone new running the city," she said.
"It's clear enough that nothing will change with either of the two
choices we have now. Biitrah. He at least was interested in mechanism.
The Galts have been doing more and more with their little devices, and
we'd be fools to ignore what they've managed."
"Children's toys," the older man said, waving the thought away.
"Toys that have made them the greatest threat Eddensea and the Westlands
have seen," the younger man said. "Their armies can move faster than
anyone else's. There isn't a warden who hasn't felt the bite of them. If
they haven't been invaded, they've had to offer tribute to the Lords
Convocate, and that's just as bad."
"The ward being sacked might disagree," Otah said, trying for a joke to
lighten the mood.
"The problem with the Galts," the woman said, "is they can't hold what
they take. Every year it's another raid, another sack, another fleet
carrying slaves and plunder back to Galt. But they never keep the land.
They'd have much more money if they stayed and ruled the Westlands. Or
Eymond. Or Eddensea."
"Then we'd have only them to trade with," the younger man said. "That'd
be ugly."
"The Galts don't have the andat," the older man said, and his tone
carried the rest: they don't have the andat, so they are not worth
considering.
"But if they did," Otah said, hoping to keep the subject away from
himself and his family. "Or if we did not-"
"If the sky dives into the sea, we'll be fishing for birds," the older
man said. "It's this Otah Machi who's uneasing things. I have it on good
authority that Danat and Kaiin have actually called a truce between them
until they can rout out the traitor."
"Traitor?" Otah asked. "I hadn't heard that of him."
"There are stories," the younger man said. "Nothing anyone has proved.
Six years ago, the Khai fell ill, and for a few days, they thought he
might die. Some people suspected poison."
"And hasn't he turned to poison again? Look at Biitrah's death," the
younger man said. "And I tell you the Khai Machi hasn't been himself
since then, not truly. Even if Otah were to claim the chair, it'd be
better to punish him for his crimes and raise up one of the high families."
"It could have been had fish," the woman said. "There was a lot of bad
fish that year."
"No one believes that," the older man said.