businesses around them-sellers of hammers and tongs, suppliers of ore
and wax blocks and slaked lime-all did their work loudly and
expansively, waving hands in mock fury and shouting even when there was
no call to. Maati made his way to a teahouse near the center of the
district where sellers and workers mixed. He asked after House Siyanti,
where their couriers might be found, what was known of them. The brown
poet's robes granted him an unearned respect, but also wariness. It was
three hands before he found an answer-the overseer of a consortium of
silversmiths had had word from House Siyanti. The courier had said the
signed contracts could be delivered to House Nan, but only after they'd
been sewn and sealed. Maati gave the man two lengths of silver and his
thanks and had started away before he realized he would also need better
directions. An older man in a red and yellow robe with a face round and
pale as the moon overheard his questions and offered to guide him there.
"You're Maati Vaupathai," the moon-faced man said as they walked. "I've
heard about you."
"Nothing scandalous, I hope," Maati said.
"Speculations," the man said. "The Khaiem run on gossip and wine more
than gold or silver. My name is Oshai. It's a pleasure to meet a poet."
They turned south, leaving the smoke and cacophony behind them. As they
stepped into a smaller, quieter street, Maati looked back, half
expecting to see the looming figure in the dark robes. There was nothing.
"Rumor has it you've come to look at the library," Oshai said.
"That's truth. The Da]-kvo sent me to do research for him."
"Pity you've come at such a delicate time. Succession. It's never an
easy thing."
"It doesn't affect me," Maati said. "Court politics rarely reach the
scrolls on the back shelves."
"I hear the Khai has books that date back to the Empire. Before the war.
"He does. Some of them are older than the copies the Dai-kvo has.
Though, in all, the Dai-kvo's libraries are larger."
"He's wise to look as far afield as he can, though," Oshai said. "You
never know what you might find. Was there something in particular he
expected our Khai to have?"
"It's complex," Maati said. "No offense, it's just ..."
Oshai smiled and waved the words away. There was something odd about his
face-a weariness or an emptiness around his eyes.
"I'm sure there are many things that poets know that I can't
comprehend," the guide said. "Here, there's a faster way down through here."
Oshai moved forward, taking Maati by the elbow and leading him down a
narrow street. The houses around them were poorer than those near the
palaces or even the metalworkers' quarter. Shutters showed the splinters
of many seasons. The doors on the street level and the second-floor snow
doors both tended to have cheap leather hinges rather than worked metal.
Few people were on the street, and few windows open. Oshai seemed
perfectly at ease despite his heightened pace so Maati pushed his
uncertainty away.
"I've never been in the library myself," Oshai said. "I've heard
impressive things of it. The power of all those minds, and all that
time. It isn't something that normal men can easily conceive."
"I suppose not," Maati said, trotting to keep up. "Forgive me, Oshai-
cha, but are we near House Nan?"
"We won't be going much further," his guide said. "Just around this next
turning."
But when they made the turn, Maati found not a trading house's compound,
but a small courtyard covered in flagstone, a dry cistern at its center.
The few windows that opened onto the yard were shuttered or empty. Maati
stepped forward, confused.
"Is this ...... he began, and Oshai punched him hard in the belly. Maati
stepped back, surprised by the attack, and astounded at the man's
strength. Then he saw the blade in the guide's hand, and the blood on
it. Maati tried to hack away, but his feet caught the hem of his robe.
Oshai's face was a grimace of delight and hatred. He seemed to jump
forward, then stumbled and fell.
When his hands-out before him to catch his fall-touched the ground, the
flagstone splashed. Oshai's hands vanished to the wrist. For a moment
that seemed to last for days, Maati and his attacker both stared at the
ground. Oshai began to struggle, pulling with his shoulders to no
effect. Maati could hear the fear in the muttered curses. The pain in
his belly was lessening, and a warmth taking its place. He tried to
gather himself, but the effort was such that he didn't notice the
darkrobed figures until they were almost upon him. 'l'he larger one had
thrown back its hood and the wide, calm face of the andat considered
him. The other form-smaller, and more agitated-knelt and spoke in
Cehmai's voice.
"Maati-kvo! You're hurt."
"Be careful!" Maati said. "He's got a knife."
Cehmai glanced at the assassin struggling in the stone and shook his
head. The poet looked very young, and yet familiar in a way that Maati
hadn't noticed before. Intelligent, sure of himself. Maati was struck by
an irrational envy of the boy, and then noticed the blood on his own
hand. He looked down, and saw the wetness blackening his robes. There
was so much of it.
"Can you walk?" Cehmai said, and Maati realized it wasn't the first time
the question had been asked. He nodded.
"Only help me up," he said.
The younger poet took one arm and the andat the other and gently lifted
him. The warmth in Maati's belly was developing a profound ache in its
center. He pushed it aside, walked two steps, then three, and the world
seemed to narrow. He found himself on the ground again, the poet leaning
over him.
"I'm going for help," Cehmai said. "Don't move. Don't try to move. And
don't die while I'm gone."
Maati tried to raise his hands in a pose of agreement, but the poet was
already gone, pelting down the street, shouting at the top of his lungs.
Maati rolled his head to one side to see the assassin struggling in vain
and allowed himself a smile. A thought rolled through his mind, elusive
and dim, and he shook himself, willing a lucidity he didn't possess. It
was important. Whatever it was bore the weight of terrible significance.
If he could only bring himself to think it. It had something to do with
Otah-kvo and all the thousand times Maati had imagined their meeting.
The andat sat beside him, watching him with the impassive distance of a
statue, and Maati didn't know that he intended to speak to it until he
heard his own words.
"It isn't Otah-kvo," he said. The andat shifted to consider the captive
trapped by stone, then turned back.
"No," it agreed. "Too old."
"No," Maati said, struggling. "I don't mean that. I mean he wouldn't do
this. Not to me. Not without speaking to me. It isn't him."