forever the bed of the Second Palace where people did everything but die
gently and old in their sleep.
Maati took a pose that requested clarification. In another context, it
would have risked annoying the messenger, but this time the servant of
the Dai-kvo seemed to be expecting a certain level of disbelief. Without
hesitation, he repeated his words.
"The Dai-kvo requests Maati Vaupathai come immediately to his private
chambers."
It was widely understood in the shining village of the Dai-kvo that
Maati Vaupathai was, if not a failure, certainly an embarrassment. Over
the years he had spent in the writing rooms and lecture halls, walking
the broad, clean streets, and huddled with others around the kilns of
the firekeepers, Maati had grown used to the fact that he would never be
entirely accepted by those who surrounded him; it had been eight years
since the Dai-kvo had deigned to speak to him directly. Maati closed the
brown leather book he had been studying and slipped it into his sleeve.
He took a pose that accepted the message and announced his readiness.
The white-robed messenger turned smartly and led the way.
The village that was home to the [)a]-kvo and the poets was always
beautiful. Now in the middle spring, flowers and ivies scented the air
and threatened to overflow the well-tended gardens and planters, but no
stray grass rose between the paving stones. The gentle choir of wind
chimes filled the air. The high, thin waterfall that fell beside the
palaces shone silver, and the towers and garrets-carved from the
mountain face itself-were unstained even by the birds that roosted in
the eaves. Men spent lifetimes, Nlaati knew, keeping the village
immaculate and as impressive as a Khai on his scat. The village and
palaces seemed as grand as the great bowl of sky above them. His years
living among the men of the village-only men, no women were
permitted-had never entirely robbed Nlaati of his awe at the place. He
struggled now to hold himself tall, to appear as calm and self-possessed
as a man summoned to the Dai-kvo regularly. As he passed through the
archways that led to the palace, he saw several messengers and more than
a few of the brown-robed poets pause to look at him.
He was not the only one who found his presence there strange.
The servant led him through the private gardens to the modest apartments
of the most powerful man in the world. Maati recalled the last time he
had been there-the insults and recriminations, the Daikvo's scorching
sarcasm, and his own certainty and pride crumbling around him like sugar
castles left out in the rain. Maati shook himself. There was no reason
for the I)ai-kvo to have called him back to repeat the indignities of
the past.
There are always the indignities of the future, the soft voice that had
become Maati's muse said from a corner of his mind. Never assume you can
survive the future because you've survived the past. Everyone thinks
that, and they've all been wrong eventually.
The servant stopped before the elm-and-oak-inlaid door that led, Maati
remembered, to a meeting chamber. He scratched it twice to announce
them, then opened the door and motioned Maati in. Maati breathed deeply
as a man preparing to dive from a cliff into shallow water and entered.
The Dai-kvo was sitting at his table. He had not had hair since Maati
had met him twenty-three summers before when the Dai-kvo had only been
Tahi-kvo, the crueler of the two teachers set to sift through the
discarded sons of the Khaiem and utkhaiem for likely candidates to send
on to the village. His brows had gone pure white since he'd become the
Dai-kvo, and the lines around his mouth had deepened. His black eyes
were just as alive.
The other two men in the room were strangers to Maati. The thinner one
sat at the table across from the Dai-kvo, his robes deep blue and gold,
his hair pulled back to show graying temples and a thin whiteflecked
heard. The thicker-with both fat and muscle, Maati thought-stood at
window, one foot up on the thick ledge, looking into the gardens, and
Maati could see where his clean-shaven jaw sagged at the jowl. His robes
were the light brown color of sand, his boots hard leather and travel
worn. He turned to look at Maati as the door closed, and there was
something familiar about him-about both these new men-that he could not
describe. He fell into the old pose, the first one he had learned at the
school.
"I am honored by your presence, most high Dai-kvo."
The Dai-kvo grunted and gestured to him for the benefit of the two
strangers.
"This is the one," the Dai-kvo said. The men shifted to look at him,
graceful and sure of themselves as merchants considering a pig. Maati
imagined what they saw him for-a man of thirty summers, his forehead
already pushing hack his hairline, the smallest of pot bellies. A soft
man in a poet's robes, ill-considered and little spoken of. He felt
himself start to blush, clenched his teeth, and forced himself to show
neither his anger nor his shame as he took a pose of greeting to the two
men.
"Forgive me," he said. "I don't believe we have met before, or if we
have, I apologize that I don't recall it."
"We haven't met," the thicker one said.
"He isn't much to look at," the thin one said, pointedly speaking to the
Dai-kvo. The thicker scowled and sketched the briefest of apologetic
poses. It was a thread thrown to a drowning man, but Nlaati found
himself appreciating even the empty form of courtesy.
"Sit down, Maati-cha," the Dal-kvo said, gesturing to a chair. "Have a
bowl of tea. There's something we have to discuss. Tell me what you've
heard of events in the winter cities."
Maati sat and spoke while the Dai-kvo poured the tea.
"I only know what I hear at the teahouses and around the kilns, most
high. There's trouble with the glassblowers in Cetani; something about
the Khai Cetani raising taxes on exporting fishing bulbs. But I haven't
heard anyone taking it very seriously. Amnat-Tan is holding a summer
fair, hoping, they say, to take trade from Yalakeht. And the Khai Machi ..."
Maati stopped. He realized now why the two strangers seemed familiar;
who they reminded him of. The Dai-kvo pushed a fine ceramic bowl across
the smooth-sanded grain of the table. Maati fell into a pose of thanks
without being aware of it, but did not take the bowl.
"The Khai Machi is dying," the Dal-kvo said. "I Iis belly's gone rotten.
It's a sad thing. Not a good end. And his eldest son is murdered.
Poisoned. What do the teahouses and kilns say of that?"
"That it was poor form," Maati said. "'t'hat no one has seen the Khaiem
resort to poison since Udun, thirteen summers ago. But neither of the
brothers has appeared to accuse the other, so no one ... Gods! You two
are ..."
"You see?" the Dai-kvo said to the thin man, smiling as he spoke. "No,