"No, he's not," Cehmai agreed. "But friendship falls where it falls. And
may the gods keep us from a world where only the people who deserve love
get it."
"Well said," the andat replied, and pushed forward the white stone
Cehmai knew it would.
The game ended quickly after that. Cehmai ate a breakfast of roast lamb
and boiled eggs while Stone-Made-Soft put away the game pieces and then
sat, warming its huge hands by the fire. There was a long day before
them, and after the morning's struggle, Cchmai was dreading it. They
were promised to go to the potter's works before midday. A load of
granite had come from the quarries and required his services before it
could be shaped into the bowls and vases for which Machi was famed.
After midday, he was needed for a meeting with the engineers to consider
the plans for House Pirnat's silver mine. The Khai Machi's engi neers
were concerned, he knew, that using the andat to soften the stone around
a newfound seam of ore would weaken the structure of the mine. House
Pirnat's overseer thought it worth the risk. It would be like sitting in
a child's garden during a mud fight, but it had to be done. Just
thinking of it made him tired.
"You could tell them I'd nearly won," the andat said. "Say you were too
shaken to appear."
"Yes, because my life would be so much better if they were all afraid of
turning into a second Saraykeht."
"I'm only saying that you have options," the andat replied, smiling into
the fire.
The poet's house was set apart from the palaces of the Khai and the
compounds of the utkhaiem. It was a broad, low building with thick stone
walls nestled behind a small and artificial wood of sculpted oaks. The
snows of winter had been reduced to gray-white mounds and frozen pools
in the deep shadows where sunlight would not touch them. Cehmai and the
andat strode west, toward the palaces and the Great "rower, tallest of
all the inhuman buildings of Machi. It was a relief to walk along
streets in sunlight rather than the deep network of tunnels to which the
city resorted when the drifts were too high to allow even the snow doors
to open. Brief days, and cold profound enough to crack stone, were the
hallmarks of the Machi winter. The terrible urge to he out in the
gardens and streets marked her spring. The men and women Cehmai passed
were all dressed in warm robes, but their faces were bare and their
heads uncovered. The pair paused by a firekeeper at his kiln. A singing
slave stood near enough to warm her hands at the fire as she filled the
air with traditional songs. The palaces of the Khai loomed before
them-huge and gray with roofs pitched sharp as axe blades-and the city
and the daylight stood at their backs, tempting as sugar ghosts on
Candles Night.
"It isn't too late," the andat murmured. "Manat Doru used to do it all
the time. He'd send a note to the Khai claiming that the weight of
holding me was too heavy, and that he required his rest. We would go
down to a little teahouse by the river that had sweetcakes that they
cooked in oil and covered with sugar so fine it hung in the air if you
blew on it."
"You're lying to me," Cehmai said.
"No," the andat said. "No, it's truth. It made the Khai quite angry
sometimes, but what was he to do?"
The singing slave smiled and took a pose of greeting to them that Cehmai
returned.
"We could stop by the spring gardens that Idaan frequents. If she were
free she might be persuaded to join us," the andat said.
"And why would the daughter of the Khai tempt me more than sweetcakes?"
"She's well-read and quick in her mind," the andat said, as if the
question had been genuine. "You find her pleasant to look at, I know.
And her demeanor is often just slightly inappropriate. If memory serves,
that might outweigh even sweetcakes."
Cehmai shifted his weight from foot to foot, then, with a commanding
gesture, stopped a servant boy. The boy, seeing who he was, fell into a
pose of greeting so formal it approached obeisance.
"I need you to carry a message for one. To the Master of'I'ides."
"Yes, Cehmai-cha," the boy said.
"Tell him I have had a bout with the andat this morning, and find myself
too fatigued to conduct business. And tell him that I will reach him on
the morrow if I feel well enough."
The poet fished through his sleeves, pulled out his money pouch and took
out a length of silver. The boy's eyes widened, and his small hand
reached out toward it. Cehmai drew it back, and the boy's dark eyes
fixed on his.
"If he asks," Cehmai said, "you tell him I looked quite ill."
The boy nodded vigorously, and Cehmai pressed the silver length into his
palm. Whatever errand the boy had been on was forgotten. He vanished
into the austere gloom of the palaces.
"You're corrupting me," Cehmai said as he turned away.
"Constant struggle is the price of power," the andat said, its voice
utterly devoid of humor. "It must be a terrible burden for you. Now
let's see if we can find the girl and those sweetcakes."
"They tell me you knew my son," the Khai Machi said. The grayness of his
skin and yellow in his long, hound hair were signs of something more
than the ravages of age. The Dai-kvo was of the same generation, but
Maati saw none of his vigor and strength here. The sick man took a pose
of command. "Tell me of him."
Maati stared down at the woven reed mat on which he knelt and fought to
push away the weariness of his travels. It had been days since he had
bathed, his robes were not fresh, and his mind was uneasy. But he was
here, called to this meeting or possibly this confrontation, even before
his bags had been unpacked. He could feel the attention of the servants
of the Khai-there were perhaps a dozen in the room. Some slaves, others
attendants from among the highest ranks of the utkhaiem. The audience
might be called private, but it was too well attended for Maati's
comfort. The choice was not his. He took the bowl of heated wine he had
been given, sipped it, and spoke.
"Otah-kvo and I met at the school, most high. He already wore the black
robes awarded to those who had passed the first test when I met him. I
... I was the occasion of his passing the second."
The Khai Machi nodded. It was an almost inhumanly graceful movement,
like a bird or some finely wrought mechanism. Maati took it as a sign
that he should continue.
"He came to me after that. He ... he taught me things about the school