thrown into a corner, he stretched his pale, numb feet almost into the
fire grate and shuddered. He would have to go to the wayhouse where
Biitrah Machi had died. The owners there had spoken to the officers of
the utkhaiem, of course. They had told their tale of the moonfaced man
who had come with letters of introduction, worked in their kitchens, and
been ready to take over for a night when the overseers all came down
ill. Still, he could not be sure there was nothing more to know unless
he made his visit. Some other day, when he could feel his toes.
The summons came to him when the sun-red and angry-was just preparing to
slide behind the mountains to the west. Maati pulled on thick, warm
boots of soft leather, added his brown poet's robes over the warmer
ones, and let himself be led to the Khai Machi's private chambers. He
passed through several rooms on his way-a hall of worked marble the
color of honey with a fountain running through it like a creek, a
meeting chamber large enough to hold two dozen at a single table, then a
smaller corridor that led to chambers of a more human size. Ahead of
him, a woman passed from one side of the corridor to the other leaving
the impression of night-black hair, warm brown skin, and robes the
yellow of sunrise. One of the wives, Maati knew, of a man who had several.
At last, the servant slid open a door of carved rosewood, and Maati
stepped into a room hardly larger than his own bedroom. The old man sat
on a couch, his feet toward the fire that burned in the grate. His robes
were lush, the silks seeming to take up the firelight and dance with it.
They seemed more alive than his flesh. Slowly, the Khai raised a clay
pipe to his mouth and puffed on it thoughtfully. The smoke smelled rich
and sweet as a cane field on fire.
Maati took a pose of greeting as formal as high court. The Khai Machi
raised an ancient eyebrow and only smiled. With the stem of the pipe, he
pointed to the couch opposite him and nodded to Maati that he should sit.
"They make me smoke this," the Khai said. "Whenever my belly troubles
me, they say. I tell them they might as well make it air, burn it by the
bushel in all the firekeeper's kilns, but they only laugh as if it were
wit, and I play along."
"Yes, most high."
There was a long pause as the Khai contemplated the flames. Maati
waited, uncertain. He noticed the catch in the Khai Machi's breath, as
if it pained him. He had not noticed it before.
"Your search for my outlaw son," the Khai said. "It is going well?"
"It is early yet, most high. I have made myself visible. I have let it
be known that I am looking into the death of your son."
"You still expect Otah to come to you?"
"Yes."
"And if he does not?"
"Then it will take more time, most high. But I will find him."
The old man nodded, then exhaled a plume of pale smoke. He took a pose
of gratitude, his wasted hands holding the position with the grace of a
lifetime's practice.
"His mother was a good woman. I miss her. Iyrah, her name was. She gave
me Idaan too. She was glad to have a child of her own that she could keep."
Maati thought he saw the old man's eyes glisten for a moment, lost as he
was in old memories of which Maati could only guess the substance. Then
the Khai sighed.
"Idaan," the Khai said. "She's treated you gently?"
"She's been nothing but kind," Maati said, "and very generous with her
time."
The Khai shook his head, smiling more to himself than his audience.
"That's good. She was always unpredictable. Age has calmed her, I think.
There was a time she would study outrages the way most girls study face
paints and sandals. Always sneaking puppies into court or stealing
dresses she fancied from her little friends. She relied on me to keep
her safe, however far she flew," he said, smiling fondly. "A mischievous
girl, my daughter, but good-hearted. I'm proud of her."
Then he sobered.
"I am proud of all my children. It's why I am not of one mind on this,"
the Khai said. "You would think that I should be, but I am not. With
every day that the search continues, the truce holds, and Kaiin and
Danat still live. I've known since I was old enough to know anything
that if I took this chair, my sons would kill each other. It wasn't so
hard before I knew them, when they were only the idea of sons. But then
they were Biitrah and Kaiin and Danat. And I don't want any of them to die."
"But tradition, most high. If they did not-"
"I know why they must," the Khai said. "I was only wishing. It's
something dying men do, I'm told. Sit with their regrets. It's likely
that which kills us as much as the sickness. I sometimes wish that this
had all happened years ago. That they had slaughtered each other in
their childhood. Then I might have at least one of them by me now. I had
not wanted to die alone."
"You are not alone, most high. The whole court . .
Maati broke off. The Khai Machi took a pose accepting correction, but
the amusement in his eyes and the angle of his shoulders made a sarcasm
of it. Maati nodded, accepting the old man's point.
"I can't say which of them I would have wanted to live, though," the
Khai said, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. "I love them all. Very
dearly. I cannot tell you how deeply I miss Biitrah."
"Had you known him, you would have loved Otah as well."
"You think so? Certainly you knew him better than I. I can't think he
would have thought well of me," the Khai said. Then, "Did you go back?
After you took your robes? Did you go to see you parents?"
"My father was very old when I went to the school," Maati said. "He died
before I completed my training. We did not know each other."
"So you have never had a family."
"I have, most high," Maati said, fighting to keep the tightness in his
chest from changing the tone of his voice. "A lover and a son. I had a
family once."
"But no longer. They died?"
"They live. Only not with me."
The Khai considered him, bloodshot eyes blinking slowly. With his thin,
wrinkled skin, he reminded Maati of a very old turtle or else a very
young bird. The Khai's gaze softened, his brows tilting in understanding
and sorrow.
"It is never easy for fathers," the Khai said. "Perhaps if the world had
needed less from us."