Выбрать главу

of greeting so brief it almost hadn't happened.

"Irani Noygu. You're Itani Noygu, then? Ah, good. I am Piyun See, the

Master of Tides' assistant. He's too busy to see you himself. So House

Siyanti has taken an interest in Machi, then?" he said. Otah smiled,

though he meant it less this time.

"I couldn't say. I only go where they send me, Piyun-cha."

The assistant took a pose of agreement.

"I had hoped to know the court's schedule in the next week," Otah said.

"I have business-"

"With the poet. Yes, I know. He left your name with us. He said we

should keep a watch out for you. You're wise to come to us first. You

wouldn't imagine the people who simply drift through on the breeze as if

the poets weren't members of the court."

Otah smiled, his mouth tasting of fear, his heart suddenly racing. The

poet of Machi-Cehmai 'Ivan, his name was-had no reason to know Itani

Noygu or expect him. This was a mistake or a trap. If it was a trap, it

was sloppy, and if a mistake, dangerous. The lie came to his lips as

gracefully as a rehearsed speech.

"I'm honored to have been mentioned. I hadn't expected that he would

remember me. But I'm afraid the business I've come on may not be what he

had foreseen."

"I wouldn't know," the assistant said as he shifted. "Visiting

dignitaries might confide in the Master of Tides, but I'm like you. I

follow orders. Now. Let me see. I can send a runner to the library, and

if he's there ..."

"Perhaps it would be best if I went to the poet's house," Otah said. "He

can find me there when he isn't-"

"Oh, we haven't put him there. Gods! He has his own rooms."

"His own rooms?"

"Yes. We have a poet of our own, you know. We aren't going to put

Cehmai-cha on a cot in the granary every time the Dai-kvo sends us a

guest. Maati-cha has apartments near the library."

The air seemed to leave the room. A dull roar filled Otah's ears, and he

had to put a hand to the wall to keep from swaying. Maati-cha. The name

came like an unforeseen blow.

Maati Vaupathai. Maati whom Otah had known briefly at the school, and to

whom he had taught the secrets he had learned before he turned his back

on the poets and all they offered. Maati whom he had found again in

Saraykeht, who had become his friend and who knew that Irani Noygu was

the son of the Khai Machi.

The last night they had seen one another-thirteen, fourteen summers

ago-Maati had stolen his lover and Otah had killed Maati's master. He

was here now, in Machi. And he was looking for Otah. He felt like a deer

surprised by the hunter at its side.

The servant girl fumbled with her strings, the notes of the tune coming

out a jangle, and Otah shifted his gaze to her as if she'd shouted. For

a moment, their eyes met and he saw discomfort in her as she hurried

back to her song. She might have seen something in his face, might have

realized who was standing before her. Otah balled his fists at his

sides, pressing them into his thighs to keep from shaking. The assistant

had been speaking. Otah didn't know what he'd said.

"Forgive me, but before we do anything, would you be so kind . . . "

Otah feigned an embarrassed simper. "I'm afraid I had one bowl of tea

too many this morning, and waters that run in, run out...."

"Of course. I'll have a slave take you to-"

"No need," Otah said as he stepped to the door. No one shouted. No one

stopped him. "I'll be back with you in a moment."

He walked out of the hall, forcing himself not to run though he could

feel his heartbeat in his neck, and his ribs seemed too small for his

breath. He waited for the warning yell to come-armsmen with drawn blades

or the short, simple pain of an arrow in his breast. Generations of his

uncles had spilled their blood, spat their last breaths perhaps here,

under these arches. He was not immune. Irani Noygu would not protect

him. He controlled himself as best he could, and when he reached the

gardens, boughs shielding him from the eyes of the palaces, he bolted.

IDAAN SAT AT THE OPEN SKY DOORS, HER LEGS HANGING OUT OVER THE VOID, and

let her gaze wander the moonlit valley. The glimmers of the low towns to

the south. The Daikani mine where her brother had gone to die. The

Poinyat mines to the west and southeast. And below the soles of her bare

feet, Machi itself: the smoke rising from the forges, the torches and

lanterns glimmering in the streets and windows smaller and dimmer than

fireflies. The winches and pulleys hung in the darkness above her, long

lengths of iron chain in guides and hooks set in the stone, ready to be

freed should there be call to haul something tip to the high reaches of

the tower or lower something down. Chains that clanked and rattled,

uneasy in the night breeze.

She leaned forward, forcing herself to feel the vertigo twist her

stomach and tighten her throat. Savoring it. Scoot forward a few inches,

no more effort really than standing from a chair, and then the sound of

wind would fill her ears. She waited as long as she could stand and then

drew hack, gasping and nauseated and trembling. But she did not pull her

legs back in. That would have been weakness.

It was an irony that the symbols of Machi's greatness were so little

used. In the winter, there was no heating them-all the traffic of the

city went in the streets, or over the snows, or through the networks of

tunnels. And even in summer, the endless spiraling stairways and the

need to haul up any wine or food or musical instruments made the gardens

and halls nearer the ground more inviting. The towers were symbols of

power, existing to show that they could exist and little enough more. A

boast in stone and iron used for storage and exotic parties to impress

visitors from the other courts of the Khaiem. And still, they made Idaan

think that perhaps she could imagine what it would he to fly. In her way

she loved them, and she loved very few things these days.

It was odd, perhaps that she had two lovers and still felt alone. Adrah

had been with her for longer, it felt, than she had been herself. And so

it had surprised her that she was so ready to betray him in another

man's bed. Perhaps she'd thought that by being a new man's lover, she

would strip off that old skin and become innocent again.

Or perhaps it was only that Cehmai had a sweet face and wanted her. She

was young, she thought, to have given tip flirtation and courtship.

She'd been angry with Adrah for embarrassing Cchmai at the dance. She'd

promised herself never to be owned by a man. And also, killing Biitrah

had left a hunger in her-a need that nothing yet had sated.