goal or form, though for a time he had the powerful impression that he
was on a boat, rocked by waves. His mind fell apart and reformed itself
at the will of his body.
He came to himself in the night, aware that he had been half awake for
some time; that there had been conversations in which he had
participated, though he couldn't say with whom or on what matters. The
room was not his own, but there was no mistaking that it belonged to the
Khai's palace. No fire burned in the grate, but the stone walls were
warm with stored sunlight. The windows were shuttered with shaped stone,
the only light coming from the night candle that had burned almost to
its quarter mark. Maati pulled back the thin blankets and considered the
puckered gray flesh of his wound and the dark silk that laced it closed.
He pressed his belly gently with his fingertips until he thought he knew
how delicate he had become. When he stood, tottering to the night pot,
he found he had underestimated, but that the pain was not so
excruciating that he could not empty his bladder. After, he pulled
himself back into bed, exhausted. He intended only to close his eyes for
a moment and gather his strength, but when he opened them, it was morning.
He had nearly resolved to walk from his bed to the small writing table
near the window when a slave entered and announced that the poet Cehmai
and the andat Stone-Made-Soft would see him if he wished. Maati nodded
and sat up carefully.
The poet arrived with a wide plate of rice and river fish in a sauce
that smelled of plums and pepper. The andat carried a jug of water so
cold it made the stone sweat. Maati's stomach came to life with a growl
at the sight.
"You're looking better, Maati-kvo." the young poet said, putting the
plate on the bed. The andat pulled two chairs close to the bed and sat
in one, its face calm and empty.
"I looked worse than this?" Maati asked. "I wouldn't have thought that
possible. How long has it been?"
"Four days. The injury brought on a fever. But when they poured onion
soup down you, the wound didn't smell of it, so they decided you might
live after all."
Maati lifted a spoon of fish and rice to his mouth. It tasted divine.
"I think I have you to thank for that," Maati said. "My recollection
isn't all it could be, but ..."
"I was following you," Cehmai said, taking a pose of contrition. "I was
curious about your investigations."
"Yes. I suppose I should have been more subtle."
"The assassin was killed yesterday."
Maati took another bite of fish.
"Executed?"
"Disposed of," the andat said and smiled.
Cehmai told the story. The fire in the tunnels, the deaths of the
guards. The other prisoners said that there had been three men in black
cloaks, that they had rushed in, killed the assassin, and vanished. Two
others had choked to death on the smoke before the watchmen put the fire
out.
"The story among the utkhaiem is that you discovered Utah Machi. The
Master of Tides' assistant said that you'd been angry with him for being
indiscreet about your questions concerning a courier from Udun. Then the
attack on you, and the fire. They say the Khai Machi sent for you to
hunt his missing son, Utah."
"Part true," Maati said. "I was sent to look for Otah. I knew him once,
when we were younger. But I haven't found him, and the knife man was ...
something else. It wasn't Otah."
"You said that," the andat rumbled. "When we found you, you said it was
someone else."
"Otah-kvo wouldn't have done it. Not that way. He might have met me
himself, but sending someone else to do it? No. He wasn't behind that,"
Maati said, and then the consequence of that fell into place. "And so I
think he must not have been the one who killed Biitrah."
Cehmai and his andat exchanged a glance and the young poet drew a bowl
of water for Maati. The water was as good as the food, but Maati could
see the unease in the way Cehmai looked at him. If he had ached less or
been farther from exhaustion, he might have been subtle.
"What is it?" Maati asked.
Cehmai drew himself up, then sighed.
"You call him Otah-kvo."
"He was my teacher. At the school, he was in the black robes when I was
new arrived. He ... helped me."
"And you saw him again. When you were older."
"Did I?" Maati asked.
Cehmai took a pose that asked forgiveness. "The Dai-kvo would hardly
have trusted a memory that old. You were both children at the school. We
were all children there. You knew him when you were both men, yes?"
"Yes," Maati said. "He was in Saraykeht when ... when Heshai-kvo died."
"And you call him Otah-kvo," Cehmai said. "He was a friend of yours,
Maati-kvo. Someone you admired. He's never stopped being your teacher."
"Perhaps. But he's stopped being my friend. That was my doing, but it's
done."
"I'm sorry, Maati-kvo, but are you certain Otah-kvo is innocent because
he's innocent, or only because you're certain? It would be hard to
accept that an old friend might wish you ill ..."
Maati smiled and sipped the water.
"Otah Machi may well wish me dead. I would understand it if he did. And
he's in the city, or was four days ago. But he didn't send the assassin."
"You think he isn't hoping for the Khai's chair?"
"I don't know. But I suppose that's something worth finding out. Along
with who it was that killed his brother and started this whole thing
rolling."
He took another mouthful of rice and fish, but his mind was elsewhere.
"Will you let me help you?"
Maati looked up, half surprised. The young poet's face was serious, his
hands in a pose of formal supplication. It was as if they were back in
the school and Cehmai was a boy asking a boon of the teachers. The andat
had its hands folded in its lap, but it seemed mildly amused. Before
Maati could think of a reply, Cehmai went on.
"You aren't well yet, Maati-kvo. You're the center of all the court
gossip now, and anything you do will be examined from eight different
views before you've finished doing it. I know the city. I know the
court. I can ask questions without arousing suspicion. The Dai-kvo
didn't choose to take me into his confidence, but now that I know what's
happening-"
"It's too much of a risk," Maati said. "The Dal-kvo sent me because I
know Otah-kvo, but he also sent me because my loss would mean nothing.
You hold the andat-"
"It's fine with me," Stone-Made-Soft said. "Really, don't let me stop you.
"If I ask questions without you, I run the same risks, and without the
benefits of shared information," Cehmai said. "And expecting me not to