that? Honestly, Maati-kya, if you went to a comfort house, you'd spend
all your time watching the girls in the front dance and wondering when
the fucking was supposed to start."
Maati's jaw went tight. When Baarath offered the fish again, Maati
refused it. The sallow man finished, and an old, thick-faced man rose,
took the pulpit, announced himself to be Cielah Pahdri, and began
listing the various achievements of his house dating back to the fall of
the Empire. Maati listened to the recitation and Baraath's overloud
chewing with equal displeasure.
He was right before, Maati told himself. Baarath was the worst kind of
ass, but he wasn't wrong.
"I assume," Maati said, "that `piss troughs' is a euphemism."
"Only half. Most of the interesting news comes to a few teahouses at the
south edge of the palaces. They're near the moneylenders, and that
always leads to lively conversations. Going to try your luck there?"
"I thought I might," Maati said as he rose.
"Look for the places with too many rich people yelling at each other.
You'll be fine," Baarath said and went back to chewing his trout.
Maati took the steps two at a time, and slipped out the rear of the
gallery into a long, dark corridor. Lanterns were lit at each end, and
Maati strode through the darkness with the slow burning runout of
annoyance that the librarian always seemed to inspire. He didn't see the
woman at the hallway's end until he had almost reached her. She was
thin, fox-faced, and dressed in a simple green robe. She smiled when she
caught his eye and took a pose of greeting.
"Maati-cha?"
Maati hesitated, then answered her greeting.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I seem to have forgotten your name."
"We haven't met. My name is Kiyan. Itani's told me all about you."
It took the space of a breath for him to truly understand what she'd
said and all it meant. The woman nodded confirmation, and Maati stepped
close to her, looking back over his shoulder and then down the corridor
behind her to be sure they were alone.
"We were going to send you an escort," the woman said, "but no one could
think of how to approach you without seeming like we were assassins. I
thought an unarmed woman coming to you alone might suffice."
"You were right," he said, and then a moment later, "That's likely na7ve
of me, isn't it?"
"A hit."
"Please. Take me to him."
Twilight had soaked the sky in indigo. In the east, stars were peeking
over the mountain tops, and the towers rose up into the air as if they
led up to the clouds themselves. Maati and the woman walked quickly; she
didn't speak, and he didn't press her to. His mind was busy enough
already. They walked side by side along darkening paths. Kiyan smiled
and nodded to those who took notice of them. Maati wondered how many
people would be reporting that he had left the council with a woman. He
looked back often for pursuers. No one seemed to be tracking them, but
even at the edge of the palaces, there were enough people to prevent him
from being sure.
They reached a teahouse, its windows blazing with light and its air rich
with the scent of lemon candles to keep off the insects. The woman
strode up the wide steps and into the warmth and light. The keep seemed
to expect her, because they were led without a word into a back room
where red wine was waiting along with a plate of rich cheese, black
bread, and the first of the summer grapes. Kiyan sat at the table and
gestured to the bench across from her. Maati sat as she plucked two of
the small bright green grapes, bit into them and made a face.
"Too early?" he asked.
"Another week and they'll be decent. Here, pass me the cheese and bread."
Kiyan chewed these and Maati poured himself a howl of wine. It was
good-rich and deep and clean. He lifted the bottle but she shook her head.
"He'll be joining us, then?"
"No. We're just waiting a moment to be sure we're not leading anyone to
him."
"Very professional," he said.
"Actually I'm new to all this. But I take advice well."
She had a good smile. Maati felt sure that this was the woman Otah had
told him about that day in the gardens when Otah had left in chains. The
woman he loved and whom he'd asked Maati to help protect. He tried to
see Liat in her-the shape of her eyes, the curve of her cheek. There was
nothing. Or perhaps there was something the two women shared that was
simply beyond his ability to see.
As if feeling the weight of his attention, Kiyan took a querying pose.
Maati shook his head.
"Reflecting on ages past," he said. "That's all."
She seemed about to ask something when a soft knock came at the door and
the keep appeared, carrying a bundle of cloth. Kiyan stood, accepted the
bundle, and took a pose that expressed her gratitude only slightly
hampered by her burden. The keep left without speaking, and Kiyan pulled
the cloth apart-two thin gray hooded cloaks that would cover their robes
and hide their faces. She handed one to Maati and pulled the other on.
When they were both ready, Kiyan dug awkwardly in her doubled sleeve for
a moment before coming out with four lengths of silver that she left on
the table. Seeing Maati's surprise, she smiled.
"We didn't ask for the food and wine," she said. "It's rude to underpay."
"The grapes were sour," Maati said.
Kiyan considered this for a moment and scooped one silver length hack
into her sleeve. They didn't leave through the front door or out to the
alley, but descended a narrow stairway into the tunnels beneath the
city. Someone-the keep or one of Kiyan's conspirators-had left a lit
lantern for them. Kiyan took it in hand and strode into the black
tunnels as assured as a woman who had walked this maze her whole life.
Maati kept close to her, dread pricking at him for the first time.
The descent seemed as deep as the mines in the plain. The stairs were
worn smooth by generations of footsteps, the path they traveled
inhabited by the memory of men and women long dead. At length the stairs
gave way to a wide, tiled hallway shrouded in darkness. Kiyan's small
lantern lit only part way up the deep blue and worked gold of the walls,
the darkness above them more profound than a moonless sky.
The mouths of galleries and halls seemed to gape and close as they
passed. Nlaati could see the scorch marks rising up the walls where
torches had been set during some past winter, the smoke staining the
tiles. A breath seemed to move through the dim air, like the earth exhaling.
The tunnels seemed empty except for them. No glimmer of light came from
the doors and passages they passed, no voices however distant competed